Chapter XV: Part 15

I will write the paper as you bid me. Only, in the face of all that is to come, I solemnly tell you that neither I nor mine ... certainly not I ... will consent to an act of injustice, disinheriting my last hours (whenever they shall come) of a natural satisfaction. You are noble in all things—but this will not be in your power—I will not discuss it so as to teaze you. Your reputation is dear to me of course ... the thoughts which men shall have of you in the least matter, I would choose to keep clean ... free from every possible taint. But it will be obvious to all, that if you pleased, you might throw out of the windows everything called mine, the moment after our marriage—interest and principal—why not? And if you abstain from this, and after your own death allow the sum which originally came from my family, to relapse there ... why it is all of pure generosity on your part—and they will understand it as I do, ... as generosity ... as more than justice. Well—let _that_ be! It is your act, and not mine, letting it be—and I have no objection to show you what my wishes are, (mere wishes), so helping you to carry out such an act in the best way. I send you the paper therefore—to that end—and only that end. There, you must stop—I never will consent to the extravagance you propose about yourself. You shall not, _if you love me_, think of carrying it out. If I thought you _could be so hard on me_, ... do you know, I would rather throw it all up now into the hands of my sisters, and be poor with you at once—I could bear _that_ so much better than the thoughts of _leaving_ you to be poor. Or, would you be easier, dearest—if a _part_ were relinquished _now_? would it make you easier ... and would you promise me, _so_, that what is mine should be accepted as yours to the end? The worst is that if I were ill, I should be a burden to you, and thus we might have reasons for regret. Still it shall be as pleases you best. But _I_ must be pleased a little too. It is _fair_ that I should.

Certainly you exaggerate to yourself the position. What would have become of you if you had loved a real heiress instead? That _would_ have been a misfortune. As it is, while you are plotting how to get rid of these penny-pieces, everybody will be pitying you for having fixed yourself in such conditions of starvation. _You_, who _might_—_have married Miss Burdett Coutts_!

See how I teaze you!—first promising not to teaze you! But always I am worse than I meant to be. Wasn’t it your fault a little for bringing up this horrible subject?—but here is the paper, the only sort of ‘settlement’ we shall have! Always I have said and sworn that I never, if I married, would have a settlement—and now I thank God to be able to keep my word so. _This_ only is a settlement of the question.

Beloved, how is your head? I love you out of the deepest of my heart, and shall not cease.

Your very own

BA.

Is this what is called a _document_? It seems to me that I have a sort of legal genius—and that I should be on the Woolsack in the Martineau. Parliament. But it seems, too, rather _bold_ to attach such a specification to your name. Laugh and pardon it all!

In compliance with the request of Robert Browning, who may
possibly become my husband, that I would express in writing my
wishes respecting the ultimate disposal of whatever property I
possess at this time, whether in the funds or elsewhere, ... I
here declare my wishes to be ... that he, Robert Browning, ...
having, of course, as it is his right to do, first held and
used the property in question for the term of his natural life,
... should bequeath the same, by an equal division, to my two
sisters, or, in the case of the previous death of either or
both of them, to such of my surviving brothers as most shall
need it by the judgment of my eldest surviving brother.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.

Wimpole Street: July, 1846.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]

Mr. Kenyon said nothing,—except a few words at dinner about the mistake of Talfourd, to Forster,—nothing whatever, though we sat together and talked for some time before the arrival of the company. And all that I heard about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some wish she meant to express in a letter, of seeing me there. So you will have to tell me and tell me, dearest, when you know anything—to-day perhaps.

My own Ba, _do not refer to what we spoke of_—the next vile thing to the vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding _that_,—painfully, ostentatiously, protesting and debating—only it seemed absolutely necessary to say thus much at some time, and early:—now it is done with,—you understanding what I expect at your hands.

Mr. Longman was of the party yesterday—speaking of Haydon, he remarked on his omitting to mention in the list of his creditors, ‘the House’—to which he owed about 100_l._ being the loss consequent on publishing his ‘Book’—the Lectures, I suppose—then, in a break, he said, in answer to a question from Forster, that the Book in question had gone into a second edition, but ‘Oh, no—the Author had received nothing for it!’ And he lost the money, poor fellow, besides! Is not that inexplicable to all save booksellers? Also, what could be his need for another person’s intermediation with the Longmans since he knew them so well and so long!

I hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on Tuesday. Do you think I am any longer able to appreciate properly the additional gift of the day in the week? I only know that I do not see you _now_, my Ba—and I feel as if I were—the words must not be written! I need _all_ of you,—utterly dearest dearest that you are! My next day, _my_ ‘Sunday’ is the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted time (in the worldly sense of not working in it) as at present,—I read books and at the turning of every page go back again for shame ... the words only before the eyes, the thoughts of you before the mind.

I found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our indefatigable Bennett,—the happy man! By the way (a very roundabout one), someone mentioned yesterday as an agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in Sydney Smith, that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally pour water down, or _up_, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for coolness’ sake. Nobody made a remark—nor spoke of such a feat’s disqualifying its performer from going into good society. Now do you remember poor Horne and the censorship of his manners?—were not his more rational libations found abominable? See the association—Bennett—Miss Mitford—Horne? But I cannot write sensibly to-day, nor _in_sensibly, which would be more amusing perhaps—I can only know I am—_here_, on Sunday!—and whatever the pen may force itself to put down, my one thought is, that you are not here. To-morrow I shall hear, and get fresh strength in the anticipation of Tuesday,—if the letter tells me you are well—the ‘headache for two days,’—tell me, my own Ba!

Bless you, ever best and dearest.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]

That is sufficient, ever dearest: now dismiss the matter from your thoughts, as I shall—having forced myself once to admit that most dreadful of possibilities and to provide for it, I need not have compunction at dwelling on the brighter, better chances which God’s previous dispensations encourage me to expect. There may be even a _claimant_, instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can bequeath—who knows? For which reason, but most of all for the stronger yourself adduce—the contingency of your illness—I do not ask you to ‘relinquish a part’—not as our arrangements now are ordered: for I have never been so foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of my obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain respects I should have preferred to try the first course,—at the beginning at least, when my faculties seemed more my own and that ‘end of the summer’ had a less absorbing interest (as I perceive now)—yet, as that is not to be, I have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on my exertions,—which I could not be _sure_ of,—particularly with this uncertain head of mine. I hope when we once are together, the world will not hear of us again until the very end—it would be horrible to have to come back to it and ask its help.

I wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit—our Tuesday would be safer—I shall be with you _unless_ a letter forbids. I can only say this now, because I expect my visitors nearly directly,—Moxon and Forster, do you remember? And the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I should fill sheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell you how I love you—‘more than ever’—I am wholly your own, dearest dearest.

Pat Flush for me—after having let me kiss you, Ba!

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 28, 1846.]

Ever dearest, your ‘Hush’ came too late. I had spoken. Do not blame me however,—for I do not blame myself. It was not very possible that I should allow your fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath. Nevertheless we will not carry on this discussion any farther: my simple protest is enough for the present,—and we shall have time, I hope, in the future, for your nobleness to unteach itself from being too proud. At any rate, let the subject _be_, now! I mentioned my ‘eldest surviving brother’ in that way in the paper, because he is put out of the question by the estates being entailed ... the Jamaica estates, I mean. And now, to have done! Unless I could _make you easier_—!

Dearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday ... for my aunt goes out and we shall have a clear ground. Ah—can it be true that you wish me to be with you _so_—dearest, dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after? Yet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections, always. Let them count for something, that it may not be entirely an absence.

Bennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my coffee on the little tray on Saturday, there was a Bennett ready on one corner. Then I must not forget to tell you how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine?) writes of you to _me_, ... speaking what she little knows the effects of ... ‘I hope,’ she says, ‘that you admire “Luria” greatly. I don’t know whether you will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I feel inclined to call Browning the greatest dramatic genius we have had for hundreds of years.’ Can anybody be more than the ‘greatest’ to anybody? Half inclined I might be to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you—yet no. Dearest is greater than Greatest ... even if one Greatest were not greater than another.

As to my headache, you might as well enquire about Troy—_Fait_. It was the air, perhaps—the heat or the cold ... the causes are forgotten with the effects. And, since I began this letter, I have been out with my aunt and Henrietta, the former having visits to pay in all the noisiest streets of the town, as appeared to me. The stone pavements seemed to accumulate on all sides to run to meet us, and I was stunned and giddy, and _am_ so tired that I shall finish my letter in a hurry, looking to to-morrow. We were out nearly three hours. Think of travelling three hours in a ‘Diligence,’ with a Clap of Thunder! It may be something like _that_! And as we were coming homeward ... there was Mr. Kenyon! He shook hands through the window and declared that he was on the point of paying a visit to me, holding up as witness, his lump of sugar for Flush ... which Flush leapt from the other side of the carriage to accept, _ore rotundo_. Then the next word was ... ‘Did you see our friend B.’ ... (pronounced Bee) ... ‘on Saturday.?’ ‘No,’ said I ... saying no for yes in the confusion ... ‘but I shall to-morrow.’ ‘He dined with me,’ continued Mr. Kenyon. The sound of which struck me into a fit of clairvoyance and I had to unsay myself with an ‘Oh yes—I _did_ see him on Saturday.’ Mr. Kenyon must have thought me purely stupid or foolish or something of the sort—and really I agree with him. To imagine my telling in that unsolicited way, too, both to my aunt and himself, that you were coming here to-morrow! So provoking! Well—it can’t be helped. He won’t come to-morrow in any case.

And _you_ will! Dearest, how glad I am that you are coming!

Being your own

BA.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]

Dearest, as I lost nearly an hour of you to-day, I make amends to myself by beginning to write to you as if I had not seen you at all. A large sheet of paper, too, has flown into my hands—the Fates giving ample room and verge enough, my characters ... not ‘of _Hell_’ ... to trace, _as_ I am not going to swear at Mr. Kenyon, whatever the provocation! Dear Mr. Kenyon!

It appears that he talked to my sisters some time before he let himself be announced to me—he said to them ‘I want to talk to you ... sit down by me and listen.’ Then he began to tell them of Mrs. Jameson, repeating what _you_ told me, of her desire to take me to Italy, ... and of her earnestness about it. To which, he added, he had replied by every representation likely to defeat those thoughts—that only a relative would be a fit companion for me, and that no person out of my family could be justified in accepting such a responsibility, on other grounds, entering on the occurrences of last year, and reasoning on from them to the possibility that if I offended by an act of disobedience, I might be ‘cast off’ as for a crime. Oh—poor Papa was not spared at all—not to Mrs. Jameson, not to my sisters. Mr. Kenyon said ... ‘It is painful to you perhaps to hear me talk so, but it is a sore subject with me, and I cannot restrain the expression of my opinions.’ He ‘had told Mrs. Jameson everything—it was due to her to have a full knowledge, he thought ... and he had tried to set before her the impossibility she was under, of doing any good.’ Then he asked my sisters ... if I ever spoke of Italy ... if they thought I dwelt on the idea of it. ‘Yes,’ they answered ‘in _their_ opinion, I had made up my mind to go.’ ‘But _how_? what is the practical side of the question? She can’t go alone—and which of you will go with her? You know, last year, she properly rejected the means which involved you in danger.’ Henrietta advised that nothing should be said or done. ‘Ba must do everything for herself. Her friends cannot help her. She must help herself.’ ‘But she must not go to Italy by herself. Then, _how_?’ ‘She has determination of character,’ continued Henrietta—‘She will surprise everybody some day.’

‘_But how?_’—Mr. Kenyon repeated ... looking uneasy. (And how imprudent of Henrietta to say _that_! I have been scolding her a little.)

The discussion ended by his instructing them to tell _me_ of Mrs. Jameson’s proposal; ‘because it was only right that I should have the knowledge of her generous kindness, though for his part, he did not like to agitate me by conversing on the subject.’

Yes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having had some conversation with my uncle Hedley, who was ‘very angry’—and he asked if my aunt Hedley had no influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered in the negative. And this is all. He appears to have no ‘plan’ of his particular own.

What do you say, Robert, to all this? Since I am officially _informed_ of Mrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank her certainly—and in what words? ‘_How_’!——as Mr. Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and thank her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but the secret of _there being a secret_ with the weight of which I am unwilling to oppress her at this time. Could it be done, I wonder? Perhaps not. Yet how hard, how very difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily, and be silent wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship! And a _whole confidence_ now is dangerous ... would torment her with a sense of responsibility. Think which way it should be.

Once you asked me about joining travelling-company, with Mrs. Jameson. Should you like it? prefer it for any cause? ... if it could be done without involving her in trouble, of course.

Ah, dearest ... what a loss the three quarters of an hour were to me! like the loss of four quarters of a moon on a dark night! When dear Mr. Kenyon came to me, he found me with my thoughts astray—following you up the street! He asked how long you had been here.... ‘Some time,’ I said—by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my answers were not so apt!—were more like ‘cross-questions,’ perhaps, than answers of the common. But he roused me a little by telling me that he wanted you to ‘make an excursion’ with Landor and himself, and that you did not ‘encourage the idea’—and by proceeding to tell me further, that at a dinner the other day at his house, your poetry being taken up and praised to the right measure, before that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote a letter by the morning’s post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that he (Mr. Reade) should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits ‘of a brother-bard,’ but that Edmund Reade _could not_ recognize Robert Browning as a master-mind of the period, for reasons, which were given at length. ‘_He_, (Robert Browning) had never rushed, with a passionate genius, into the production of long poems’ ... (like ‘Italy’) ‘and long dramas’ ... (like ... like ... what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last?) Poor, wretched man! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in compassion too tender toward humanity! Also he told me your excellent story on the stairs.

On the stairs! I heard the talking and the laughing, and felt ready to cry out the burden. Well—, Saturday will come, as surely as _you_ could go. May God bless you, my own!—are you my own? and not rather, yes, rather, far rather, _I_ am your own, your very own

BA.

I doubt your being able to read what is written. Only don’t send the ‘manuscript’ to Mr. Forster, to be interpreted ... after the fashion of others!

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]

This is just the way, the only way, my ever, ever dearest, you make cares for me—it _is_ hard to dare to settle whether the pain of the lost quarters of the hour yesterday be not balanced by the gladness and gain of this letter; as it is hard saying whether to kiss your hand (mind, only the hand!) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you and only seeing: you cause me abundance of _such_ troubles, dearest, best, divinest that you are! Oh, how _can_ you, blessing me so, speak as you spoke yesterday—for the _first_ time! I thought you would only write such suppositions, such desires—(for it was a desire) ... and that along with you I was safe from them,—yet you are adorable amid it all—only I _do_ feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell—no, not _now_ I feel it,—this letter is before my heart like the hand on my eyes. I feel this letter, only—how good, good, good of you to write it! Yes, I _did_ meet Mr. Kenyon on the stairs—with a half opened door that discovered sundry presences, and _then_ had I to speak of a sudden—put it to my credit on one side that I _did_ speak and laugh; and on the other side, that I did neither _too à propos_. He most kindly (SEEING IT ALL) began asking about Forster and Moxon—and I remember some kind of stammering remark of the latter which I retailed ... to the effect that ‘now would be a favourable time to print a volume of poems’—this I did, to _seem_ to have something on my mind calling for a consultation with you! Then he made that proposal about Landor and Mr. Eagles ... whether I ‘encouraged the idea,’ or no, it encouraged me, and helped me a good deal this morning,—for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a pressing letter to invite me to go to Ireland,—I should have yachting and other delights,—and I was glad to return for an answer, that I had an engagement, ‘conditional on my accepting any.’ As for my ‘excellent story on the stairs’—you _alarm_ me! Upon my honour, I have not the least recollection of having told one, or said another word than the above mentioned. So people are congratulated on displaying this or the other bravery in battle or fire, when their own memory is left a blank of all save the confusion! Let me say here, that he amused me also with the characteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.

And—now! now, Ba, to the subject-matter: whatever you decide on writing to Mrs. Jameson will be rightly written—it seems to me _nearly_ immaterial; (putting out of the question the confiding the whole secret, which, from its responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether you decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months (Ba?) will make abundantly plain,—or whether you farther inform her that there _is_ a special secret—of which she must bear the burthen, even in that mitigated form, for the same two months,—as I say, it seems immaterial—but it is most material that you should see how the ground is crumbling from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities—do not talk about ‘four months,’—till December, that is—unless you mean what _must_ follow as a consequence. The next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s application to me—_he certainly knows everything_ ... how else, after such a speech from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits incline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience, gentleness: your father might have entered the room suddenly yesterday and given vent to all the passionate indignation in the world. I dare say we should have been married to-day: but I shall have the quietest, most considerate of expositions made me (with one arm on my shoulder), of how I am sure to be about to kill you, to ruin you, your social reputation, your public estimation, destroy the peace of this member of your family, the prospects of that other,—and the end will be?

Because I _can_ not only die for you but live without you _for you_—once sure it is for you: I know what you once bade me promise—but I do not know what assurances on assurance, all on the ground of a presumed knowledge of your good above your own possible knowledge,—might not effect! _I do not know!_

_This_ is _through you_! You _ought_ to know now that ‘it would _not_ be better for me to leave you’! That after this devotion of myself to you I cannot undo it all, and devote myself to objects so utterly insignificant that yourself do not venture to specify them—‘it would be better—people will say such things’ ... I will never _force_ you to know this, however—if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall never seem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of what my life would probably be, disengaged from you—it should certainly not be passed where the ‘people’ are, nor where their ‘sayings’ influenced me any more—but I ask you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what is worthy and durable and _the better_—and then _decide_:—for instance, to speak of waiting for four months will be a decision.

See, dearest—I began lightly,—I cannot end so. I know, after all, the words were divine, self-forgetting words—after all, that you _are_ mine, by the one tenure, of your own free gift,—that all the _other_ words have not been mere breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error you will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in? I wish I could take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all my very self, and fold over them your little hand, and leave them there—then you would see what belief is mine! But if you had _not_ seen it, would you have uttered one word, written one line, given one kiss to me? May God bless you, Ba—

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Wednesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]

‘Such desires—(for it was a desire—’)

Well put into a parenthesis _that_ is!—ashamed and hiding itself between the brackets!

Because—my own dearest—it was _not_ a ‘desire’—it was the farthest possible from being a ‘desire’ ... the word I spoke to you on Tuesday ... yesterday!

And if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing it——what did _that_ prove, but that I _was able_ to speak it, and that just it was so much less earnest and painfully felt? Why it was not a proposition even—. I said only ‘You had better give me up!’ It was only the reflection, in the still water, of what _had been_ a proposition. ‘Better’ perhaps!—‘Better’ for you, that you should desire to give me up and do it—my ‘Idée fixe’ you know. But _said_ with such different feelings from those which have again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while I wrote to you the vexatious letter ... that I smile at you seeing no difference. You, blind!—Which is wrong of me again. I will not smile for having vexed you ... teazed you. Which is wrong of _you_, though ... the being vexed for so little! because ‘you _ought_ to know by this time’ ... (now I will use your reproachful words)—you ought certainly to know that I am your own, and ready to go through with the matter we are upon, and willing to leave the times and the seasons in your hand! Four months! meant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All I thought of answering to you, was, that there was no need yet of specifying the exact time. And yet—

Ah—yes!—I feel as _you_ feel, the risks and the difficulties which close around us. And _you_ feel _that_ about Mr. Kenyon? Is it by an instinct that I tremble to think of _him_, more than to think of others? The hazel-rod turns round in my hand when I stand _here_. And as you show him speaking and reasoning ... his arm laid on your shoulder ... oh, what a vision, _that_ is! before _that_, I cannot stand any longer!—it takes away my breath—the likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to _promise_ to realise itself, one day!

But _you promised_. I have your solemn promise, Robert! If ever you should be moved by a single one of those vain reasons, it will be an unfaithful cruelty in you. You will have trusted _another_, against _me_. You would not do it, my beloved.

For I have none in the world who will hold me to make me live in it, except only you. I have come back for you alone ... at your voice and because you have use for me! I have come back to live a little for you—. I see _you_. My fault is ... not that I think too much of what people will say. I see you and hear you. ‘People’ did not make me live for _them_. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve that you should believe in me, beloved, because my love for you is ‘_Me_.’

Now tell me again to ‘decide’—and I will tell you that the words are not ‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’ Dearest beyond words, did I deserve you telling me to ‘decide’?

Let it be September then, if _you_ do not decide otherwise—I would not lean to dangerous delays which are unnecessary—I wish we were at Pisa, rather!

So try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from Nevers to Châlons ... _I_ could not to-day, with my French travelling-book, find a way, either by the _chemin de fer_ or _coche d’eau_.—All the rest is easy and direct ... and very cheap. We must not hesitate between the French route and the sea voyage.

Now I will tell you your good story. You said that you had only heard six words from Mr. Reade—but that they were characteristic. Someone was talking before him and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore—‘He is very ill’ said the someone. ‘_But he is no poet_’ said Mr. Reade.

Isn’t it a good story? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘exquisite.’ It is what your man of science would have called ‘A beautiful specimen’—now isn’t it?

May God bless you, dearest, dearest!—I owe all to you, and love you wholly—I am your very own—

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Thursday.
[Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]

Now you are my very own best, sweetest, dearest Ba—Do you think after such a letter as mine any amount of confidence in my own intentions, or of the reasonableness of being earnest on such a subject, can avail to save me from mortal misgivings? I should not have said those words, certainly I should not—but you forgive them and me, do you not?

It was through seeing the peril about Mr. Kenyon just as you see it; but do not suppose I could break my promise,—to every point urged after that sad irresistible fashion, my answer would be,—would in the end amount to,—‘provided she consents.’ And then he would return to you, put away altogether the arguments just used to me, take up in their stead the corresponding ones founded on _my_ interests as he would profess to understand them, and the result would be that a similar answer would be obtained from you,—which he would call your ‘consent.’ This is not what I fear _now_,—oh, no!—but the fancy that I was frightened by, yesterday, while I wrote. Now, I seem to have my powers about me, and could get to the truth and hold by it through every difficulty,—and if I, how much more you!

Then, this is expecting the _worst_ of Mr. Kenyon,—and the best is at least as likely. In any case, one may be sure of cautions and warnings and a wise, good, shaking of the head—he is none of the ardent anticipators of exuberant happiness from any scheme begun and ended here below. But after that,—why, ours is the only thoroughly rational match that ever came under my notice, and he is too clever not to see some justification in it. At all events, he will say ‘we shall see!’—whether he sigh or smile in the saying—and if he waits, he _will_ see.

And we will ‘decide’ on nothing, being sure of the _one_ decision—I mean, that, if the summer _be_ long, and likely to lead in as fine an Autumn, and if no new obstacles arise,—September shall go as it comes, and October too, if your convenience is attained thereby in the least degree,—afterward, you will be all my own, all your days and hours and minutes. I forgot, by the way, to reply to your question concerning Mrs. J.—_if there is good to you_, decided or even not impossible good—of course, let her be with us if she will, otherwise, oh let us be alone, Ba! I find by the first map, that from Nevers the Loire proceeds S.E. till the _Arroux_ joins it, and that just below it communicates with the Canal du Centre, which runs N.E. from _Paray_ to _Chagny_ and thence to Châlons sur Saône. It is a roundabout way, but not more so than the post-road by Autun—the Canal must be there for something, and in that case, you travel from Orleans to Leghorn by water and with the least fatigue possible. I observe that steam-boats leave St. Katherine’s Wharf every Thursday and Sunday morning at 8 o’clock for Havre, Rouen and Paris—would that way be advisable? I will ascertain the facts about Nevers and Châlons by the time we meet.

Dearest Ba, my very own, I love you with a love—not to die before any sorrow! perhaps that is the one remaining circumstance of power to heighten it! May God bless you for me—

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]

Well, then,—it wasn’t, after all, so extravagant of me to make the proposition about ‘four months?’ How innocent people may be treated like guilty ones, through no _mistake_ even, of theirs!

But I hold to my first impression about Mr. Kenyon, whatever your second ones may be. I know him entirely, and his views of life, and his terrors of responsibility ... his irresolution, his apprehensiveness. He never would ‘shake his head’ good-naturedly, ... until he could do nothing else. Just in proportion to the affection he bears each of us, would he labour to drive us apart. And by the means you describe! And we who can foresee and analyze those means from this distance, would not, either of us, resist the actual process! There ... do not suffer yourself, ever dearest, to be drawn into any degree of confidence _there_! It would end miserably, I know ... see ... am confidently sure. Let him, on the contrary, see the thing done, before he sees it at all, and _then_ he will see the best of it ... the good in it ... _then_ we shall stand on the sunshiny side of his philosophy and have all the benefit of _that_, instead of having to endure, as we should now, the darkness of his irresolution and the weight of his over-caution. Observe of dear Mr. Kenyon, that, generous and noble as he is, _he fears like a mere man of the world_. Moreover he might find very rational cause for fearing, in a distant view of this ... ‘most rational’ of marriages!—oh, but I am wrong in my quotation!—this only rational marriage that ever was heard of!—!!—it is _so_, I think.

Where did you guess that I was to-day? In Westminster Abbey! But we were there at the wrong hour, as the service was near to begin ... and I was so frightened of the organ, that I hurried and besought my companions out of the door after a moment or two. Frightened of the organ!—yes, just exactly _that_—and you may laugh a little as they did. Through being so disused to music, it affects me quite absurdly. Again the other day, in the drawing room, because my cousin sang a song from the ‘Puritani,’ of no such great melancholy, I had to go away to finish my sobbing by myself. Which is all foolish and absurd, I know—but people cannot help their nerves—and I was ready to cry to-day, only to _think_ of the organ, without hearing it—I, who do not cry easily, either! and all Arabel’s jests about how I was sure of my life even if I _should_ hear one note, ... did not reassure me in the least. We walked within the chapel ... merely within ... and looked up and looked down! How grand—how solemn! Time itself seemed turned to stone there! Then we stood where the poets were laid—oh, it is very fine—it is better than Laureateships and pensions. Do you remember what is written on Spenser’s monument—‘Here lyeth, in expectation of the second coming of Jesus Christ, ... Edmond Spenser, having given proof of his divine spirit in his poems’—something to that effect; and it struck me as being earnest and beautiful, and as if the writer believed in him. We should not dare, nowadays, to put such words on a poet’s monument. We should say ... the author of such a book ... at most! Michael Drayton’s inscription has crept back into the brown heart of the stone ... all but the name and a date, which somebody has renewed with black lines ... black as ink.

Dearest, it will not do at all ... the going at eight o’clock in the morning. I could not leave this house—it would not be possible. And then, why should we _wish_ even, for that long passage to no end; Southampton or Brighton being, each of them, accessible and unobjectionable. As for the expense, it is nearly equal, by railway or sea.

For Mrs. Jameson, I mentioned her because you did once, and because her being so kind reminded me of it. I thought perhaps you might like her being with us (how should _I_ know?), in which case ... Well—but you do not wish it, ... and indeed _I_ do not. Therefore she shall go by herself ... dear Mrs. Jameson ... I will however write to her, which I have not done yet. It is not so easy as you think, perhaps, to write at once so much and so little.

Why not tell me how you are, Robert? When you do not, I fancy that you are not well! Say how you are, and love me till Saturday—and even afterwards.

Your very own BA.

As to forgiveness—_ought_ I to have been angry when I was not? All I felt in that letter, was, that you loved me—and as to your pretending to think that it was ‘show and acting’ on my part, I knew you did not really, and could not:—but at any rate I was the farthest possible from being angry—and the _very_ farthest possible, peradventure!

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Friday.
[Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]

Dearest Ba, the love _was_ as you admit, beneath all the foolish words—I will lay your pardon to my heart with the other blessings. All this missing of instant understanding—(for it does not amount to _mis_understanding)—comes of letters, and our being divided. In my anxiety about a point, I go too much on the other side from mere earnestness,—as if the written words had need to make up in force what they want in sound and promptness—and assuredly if I _had_ received such an impression _directly_ from your suggestion (since not a ‘desire,’—you dear, dear Ba!) I should have begun at once to ask and argue ... whereas, it _was_ only to the memory of what you said, an after impression, that I wrote in answer. Well, I will certainly ‘love you till Saturday,—and even after.’

Did you indeed go to the Abbey? How right to go! Every such expedition is the removal of a world of apprehension. And why not accept Mrs. Jameson’s offer now, stipulating for privacy, and go and see the Museum,—the Marbles? And the National Gallery, and whatever you would wish to see. At Pisa, Ba, the Cathedral will be ours, wholly—divinely beautiful it is—more impressive in itself than the Florence Duomo—and then the green grass round, over the pavement it hides.

And considerably more impressive than the party at Mrs. Milner Gibson’s last night—whereof I made one through a sudden goodnatured invitation which only came yesterday—so I went ‘for reasons.’ Chorley was there, looking very tired as he said he was. I left very early, having accomplished my purpose.

You know you are right, and that I knew you to be right about Mr. Kenyon—no _confidence_ shall I make to him, be assured—but in the case of a direct application, with all those kind apologies in case his suspicion should be wrongly excited, what should I say?—to Mr. Kenyon, with his kindness and its right, mind—not to any other inquirer—think of the facilities during the week among the Quantock Hills! But no matter,—nothing but your own real, unmistakable consent, divides us—I believe _nothing_ till that comes. The Havre voyage was of course merely a fact noted—all courses, ways, routes are entirely the same to me.

Thank you, dearest—I am very much better, well, indeed—so said my doctor who came last evening to see my father, whose eye is a little inflamed—so shall Ba see, but not take the trouble to say, when I rejoice in her presence to-morrow. Dearest, I love you with my whole heart and soul—may God bless you—

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Sunday Morning and Evening.
[Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]

Ever dearest, you were wet surely? The rain came before you reached the front door; and for a moment (before I heard it shut) I hoped you might return. Dearest, how I blame myself for letting you go—for not sending you a cab in despite of _you_! I was frightened out of all wisdom by the idea of who was down-stairs and listening perhaps, and watching—as if the cab would have made you appear more emphatically you! And then you said ‘the rain was over’—and I believed you as usual. If this isn’t a precedent of the evils of too much belief...!!

Altogether, yesterday may pass among the ‘unsatisfactory days,’ I think—for if I was not frightened of the storm, and _indeed_ I was not, much—of the state of affairs down in the provinces, I was most sorely frightened—uneasy the whole time. I seem to be with you, Robert, at this moment, more than yesterday I was ... though if I look up now, I do not see you sitting there!—but when you sate there yesterday, I was looking at Papa’s face as I saw it through the floor, and now I see only yours.

Dearest, he came into the room at about seven, before he went to dinner—I was lying on the sofa and had on a white dressing gown, to get rid of the strings ... so oppressive the air was, for all the purifications of lightning. He looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him, and said, ‘Has this been your costume since the morning, pray?’

‘Oh no’—I answered—‘Only just now, because of the heat.’

‘Well,’ he resumed, with a still graver aspect ... (so displeased he looked, dearest!) ‘it appears, Ba, that _that man_ has spent the whole day with you.’ To which I replied as quietly as I could, that you had several times meant to go away, but that the rain would not let you,—and there the colloquy ended. Brief enough—but it took my breath away ... or what was left by the previous fear. And think how it must have been a terrible day, when the lightning of it made the least terror.

I was right too about the message—he took up the fancy that I might be ill perhaps with fear ... ‘and only Mr. Browning in the room’!! which was not to be permitted. He was _peremptory_ with Arabel, she told me.

Well—we need not talk any more of it—it has made one of us uncomfortable long enough. Shall you dare come on Tuesday after all? He will be out. If he is not—if my aunt should not be ... if a new obstacle should occur ... why you shall hear on Tuesday. At any rate I shall write, I think. He did not see you go yesterday—he had himself preceded you by an hour ... at five o’clock ... which if it had been known, would have relieved me infinitely. Yet it did not prevent ... you see ... the appalling commentary at seven—No.

With all the rest I am afraid besides of Mr. Chorley and his idea about your ‘mysteriousness.’ Let Mr. Kenyon hold that thread in one hand, and in the other the thread Henrietta gave him so carelessly, why he need not ask you for information—which reminds me of the case you put to me, Robert—and certainly you could not help a confession, in such possible circumstances. Only, even granting the circumstances, you need not confess more than is wrung from you—need you? Because Mr. Kenyon would undo us.

Before yesterday’s triple storms, I had a presentiment which oppressed me during two days ... a presentiment that it would all end _ill_, through some sudden accident or misery of some kind. What is the use of telling you this? I do not know. I will tell you besides, that it cannot ... shall not ... be, by my fault or failing. I may be broken indeed, but never bent.

If things should go smoothly, however, I want to say one word, once for all, in relation to them. Once or twice you have talked as if a change were to take place in your life through marrying—whereas I do beg you to keep in mind that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed aside because of me. If you should make me feel myself in the way, should I like it, do you think? And how could I disturb a single habit or manner of yours ... as an unmarried man ... though being within call—I? The best of me is, that I am really very quiet and not difficult to content—having not been spoilt by an excess of prosperity even in little things. It will be prosperity in the greatest, if you seem to be happy—believe that, and leave all the rest. You will go out just as you do now ... when you choose, and as a matter of course, and without need of a word—you will be precisely as you are now in everything,—lord of the house-door-key, and of your own ways—so that when I shall go to Greece, you shall not feel yourself much better off than before I went. That shall be a reserved vengeance, Robert.

While I write, comes Mr. Kenyon,—and through a special interposition of guardian-angels, he has broken his spectacles and carries them in his hand. On which I caught at the opportunity and told him that they were the most unbecoming things in the world, and that fervently (and sincerely) I hoped never to see them mended. The next word was ... ‘Did you see Browning yesterday?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I thought so, I intended to come myself, but I thought it probable that he would be here, and so I stayed away—’

Now——I confess to you that that thought carries me a good way over to your impression. It is at least ‘suspicious,’ that he who knew you were with me on Saturday and Tuesday should expect to find you again on the next Saturday. ‘Oh—how uncomfortable’—the miracle of the broken spectacles not saving one from the discomfort of the position open to the bare eyes!—

He talked of you a little—asked what you were doing—praised you as usual ... for inexhaustible knowledge and general reasonableness, this time. Did I not think so? Yes—of course I thought so.

Presently he made me look aghast by just this question—‘Is there an attachment between your sister Henrietta and Capt. Cook?’—(put as abruptly as I put it here).

My heart leapt up—as Wordsworth’s to the rainbow in the sky—but there was a recoil in my leap. ‘Why, Mr. Kenyon?’—I said ... ‘what extraordinary questions, opening into unspeakable secrets, you do ask.’

‘But I did not know that it was a secret. How was I to know? I have seen him here very often, and it is a natural enquiry which I might have put to anybody in the house touching a matter open to general observation. I thought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s consent.’

‘But you ought to know,’ I answered, ‘that such things are never permitted in this house. So much for the consent. As for the matter itself you are right in your supposition—but it is a great secret,—and I entreat you not to put questions about it to anybody in or out of the house.’ Something to that effect I believe I said—I was frightened ... frightened ... and not exactly for Henrietta. What did he mean?—Had _he_ too in his mind....

He touched on Mrs. Jameson ... just _touched_ ... He had desired my sisters to tell me. He thought I had better write a note to thank her for her kindness. He had told her that if I had any thoughts of Italy they could be accomplished only by a sea-voyage, which was impossible to her.

I briefly expressed a sense of the kindness and said that I meant to write. On which the subject was changed in mutual haste, as seemed to me.

Is not this the book of the chronicles?... And you shall hear again on Tuesday, if the post should be faithful to me that morning. I might be inclined to put off our Tuesday’s meeting, but Mrs. Hedley remains in London for a few days after her daughter’s marriage, and ‘means to see a great deal’ of me—therefore Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,’ ... where should we look, from Tuesday? but I must consider and will write. May God bless you! Do say how you are after that rain. The storm is calm,

and ever and ever I am your own BA.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday.
[Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]

What can I tell you, ever dearest, while I am expecting all you are to tell _me_? I will not conjecture, nor be afraid (for you) before the time—I felt your dear hand press mine closer while the thunder sounded—so it will always be, I know, in life, in death—and when a thunder shall break, of a kind that I can fear, I will hold _your_ hand, my Ba. Perhaps there is nothing formidable here ... indeed there can hardly be—tell me _all_. I got to your Hodgson’s, waited a few minutes till a cab passed, and then was properly deposited at the Haymarket. The streets, at least the roads out of Town, were flooded—very canals. Here, at home our skylight was broken,—and our chimneys behaved just as yours.

And now—shall I see you really on Tuesday after this Saturday of perils? And how will your head be,—your health in general be, you sweetest Ba? Is it the worse for the storm and the apprehension,—to say nothing of what may have followed? Oh, if but a ‘sign’ might be vouchsafed me—if I might go to Wimpole Street presently, and merely know by the disposition of a blind or of a shutter, that you were better, or no worse! I ought to have contrived something of the kind yesterday—but ‘presence of mind’!

Ba, I have been reading those poems—now to speak soberly—I had no conception, Mrs. Butler could have written anything so mournfully mediocre ... to go as near flattery as I can. With the exception of three or four pieces respectable from their apparent earnestness, all that album writing about ‘sprites,’ and the lily-bell, and ‘wishes’—now to be dead and now alive,—descriptions without colour, songs without tune,—why, Bennett towers above it! _Either_ Bennett—for the one touch you recorded, ‘I will not be forgot’—seems grandly succinct contrasted with

Yet not in tears remembered be my name—
Weep over those ye loved—for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality.

How many of these unfortunate Sundays are in store for me, I wonder—eight or nine, then the two months ... ‘when constant faith and holy hope shall die,’ one lost in certainty and one in the deep deep joy of the ever present ever dearest Ba! Oh, Ba, how I love you!

Your own R.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]

Oh, the comfort you are to me, Ba—the perpetual blessing and sustainment! And what a piece of you, how instinct with you, this letter is! I will not try to thank you, but my whole life shall.

See! _Now_ talk of ‘three or four months’! And is not the wonder, that this should wait for the eighty-second visit to happen? Or could anything be more fortunate, more _mitigating_ than the circumstances under which it _did_ happen at last? The rain and thunder,—the two hours (see the accounts—nothing like it has been known, for years), at most, _proved_ against us,—the ignorance of the visits last week—in spite of all which, see what comes and is likely to come!

Let me say at once that, at the worst, it _may_ come! You have had time to know enough of me, my Ba,—and I, who from the first knew you, have taken one by one your promises from your lips,—I _believe_ what you write here; I accept it as the foundation of all my future happiness—‘you will never fail me’—I will never fail you, dearest dearest.