Chapter XXII: Part 22

Dearest, I woke this morning _quite well_—quite free from the sensation in the head. I have not woke _so_, for two years perhaps—what have you been doing to me?

My father and mother and sister love you thoroughly—my mother said this morning, in my room, ‘If I were as I have been, I would try and write to her’—I said, ‘I will tell her what I know you feel.’ She is much better—(I hear her voice while I write ... below the open window). Poor Pritchard came home from the country on Friday _night_—late—and posted here immediately—he was vexed to be made understand that there was some way in which he might have served me and did not. It was kind, very kind of Wilson.

I will leave off—to resume to-morrow. Bless you, my very own, only Ba—my pride, and joy, and utter comfort. I kiss you and am ever your own.

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

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]

You go on to comfort me, love—bless you for it. I collect from the letter that you are recovering from the pain and excitement; that is happy! I waited to hear from you, my own Ba, and will only write a word—then go out—_think_.

Do you feel _so_, through the anxieties and trouble of this situation? You take my words from me—_I_ ‘exult’ in the irrevocability of this precious bestowal of yourself on me—come what will my life has borne flower and fruit—it is a glorious, successful, felicitous life, I thank God and you.

All has been for the best, you will see, even in these apparently untoward circumstances—this particular act was _precipitated_ by them, certainly—but it is done, and well done. Does it not simplify our arrangements that this is _done_? And surely there was every justification for the precipitancy in that proposed journey, and uncertain return,—(in Winter to a freshly-painted house!) But every moment of my life brings fresh proof to me of the intervention of Providence. How the _natural_ course would have embarrassed us!—any consultation with you respecting your own feelings on a removal at present—any desire to gratify them....

Will not Mr. Kenyon understand at least? Would it not be well to ascertain his precise address in the country,—so as to send your letter there, before the newspaper reaches him,—or any other person’s version? I will send you my letter to accompany yours—just a few words to explain why he was not consulted—(by _me_) ... what is strictly _my own_ part to be excused. What do you intend to do about Mrs. Jameson? I only want to know in the case of our mutual friends, of course, so as to avoid the necessity of going over the same ground in our letters.

I confided my approaching marriage to that kind old Pritchard, lest he should be too much wounded—if his surprise was considerable, his delight kept due proportion. You may depend on his secrecy—I need not say, I mentioned the fact _simply_ ... without a word about any circumstances. If your father could be brought to allow the matter to pass as _indifferent_ to him ... what he did not choose to interfere with, however little he approved it,—we should be fortunate? Perhaps pride, if no kinder feeling, may induce him to that.

My family all love you, dearest—you cannot conceive my father and mother’s childlike faith in goodness—and my sister is very high-spirited, and quick of apprehension—so as to seize the true point of the case at once. I am in great hopes you will love them all, and understand them. Last night, I asked my father, who was absorbed over some old book, ‘if he should not be glad to see his new daughter?’—to which he, starting, replied ‘Indeed I _shall_!’ with such a fervour as to make my mother laugh—not abated by his adding, ‘And how I should be glad of her seeing Sis!’ his other daughter, Sarianna, to wit—who was at church.

Trifles, trifles, only commended to your dear, affectionate heart. Do you confide in me, Ba? Well, you _shall_!—in my love, in my pride, in my heart’s purposes; but not in anything else. Give me your counsel at all times, beloved: I am wholly open to your desires, and teaching, and direction. Try what you can make of me,—if you can in any way justify your choice to the world. So _I_ would gladly counsel you on any point! See how I read lectures about Flush! Only give a kiss before beginning, and promise me another upon my profiting,—and I shall be twice blessed beside the profit. So, _my_ counsel being done, here begin the kisses, you dear dear Ba of mine. Bless you ever, Ba! I continue _quite well_—is it not strange ... or _is_ it? And my mother is better decidedly. When she comes back from town (where she and my sister are caring for me) I will tell her what you bade me promise to give her—in return for what she has long given you. Good-bye, my own—very own Ba, from your R.

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

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]

Ever dearest, this one word goes to you to say about Mr. Kenyon’s letter—oh, do not send any letter, dearest, till we are out of hearing of the answer. It terrifies me to think of your sending a letter, perhaps, without delay. Do let no letter nor intimation be given till the very last. Remember that I shall be _killed_—it will be so infinitely worse than you can have an idea.

Afterwards—yes!—you will, for my sake forget some natural pride, as I, for yours, have forgotten some as natural apprehensiveness. That kindness, I expected from you, ... and now accept ... thanking you, dearest. In the meanwhile, there seems to remain the dreadful danger of the newspapers—we must trust, as you say.

Your mother’s goodness touches me very deeply. I am grateful to her and to all your family, beyond any power of mine to express my feelings. Let me be silent therefore, instead of trying.

As to the important business of the cards, you know I have heard the whole theory of etiquette lately on that subject, and you must not think of putting any ‘_At home_’ anywhere, or any other thing in the place of it. A Fellows is an authority in Asia Minor, but for the _minora_ of the cards, not at all. Put simply the names, as you say, on one card, only without abbreviation or initial, and no intimation of address, which is not necessary, and would be under our circumstances quite wrong. Then I had better perhaps send you a list of names and addresses. But for this, enough time.

They hasten me—I must go. Not from the thought however of you ... being your very own Ba.

I shall write of course in the evening again.

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

Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]

First, God is to be thanked for this great joy of hearing that you are better, my ever dearest—it is a joy that floats over all the other emotions. Dearest, I am so glad! I had feared that excitement’s telling on you quite in another way. When the whole is done, and we have left England and the talkers thereof behind our backs, you will be well, steadfastly and satisfactorily, I do trust. In the meantime, there seems so much to do, that I am frightened to look towards the heaps of it. As to accoutrements, everything has been arranged as simply as possible that way—but still there are necessities—and the letters, the letters! I am paralysed when I think of having to write such words as ... ‘Papa, I am married; I hope you will not be too displeased.’ Ah, poor Papa! You are too sanguine if you expect any such calm from him as an assumption of indifference would imply. To the utmost, he will be angry,—he will cast me off as far from him. Well—there is no comfort in such thoughts. How I felt to-night when I saw him at seven o’clock, for the first time since Friday, and the event of Saturday! He spoke kindly too, and asked me how I was. Once I heard of his saying of me that I was ‘the purest woman he ever knew,’—which made me smile at the moment, or laugh I believe, outright, because I understood perfectly what he meant by _that_—viz—that I had not troubled him with the iniquity of love affairs, or any impropriety of seeming to think about being married. But now the whole sex will go down with me to the perdition of faith in any of us. See the effect of my wickedness!—‘Those women!’

But we will submit, dearest. I will put myself under his feet, to be forgiven a little, ... enough to be taken up again into his arms. I love him—he is my father—he has good and high qualities after all: he is my father _above_ all. And _you_, because you are so generous and tender to me, will let me, you say, and help me to try to win back the alienated affection—for which, I thank you and bless you,—I did not thank you enough this morning. Surely I may say to him, too, ... ‘With the exception of this act, I have submitted to the least of your wishes all my life long. Set the life against the act, and forgive me, for the sake of the daughter you once loved.’ Surely I may say _that_,—and then remind him of the long suffering I have suffered,—and entreat him to pardon the happiness which has come at last.

And _he_ will wish in return, that I had died years ago! For the storm will come and endure. And at last, perhaps, he will forgive us—it is my hope.

I accede to all you say of Mr. Kenyon. I will ask him for his address in the country, and we will send, when the moment comes, our letters together.

From Mrs. Jameson I had the letter I enclose, this morning, (full of kindness—is it not?) and another really as kind from Miss Bayley, who begs me, if I cannot go to Italy, to go to Hastings and visit her. To both I must write at some length. Will _you_ write to Mrs. Jameson, besides what I shall write? And what are we to say as to travelling? As she is in Paris, perhaps we may let her have the solution of our problem sooner than the near people. May we? shall we? Yet we dare not, I suppose, talk too historically of what happened last Saturday. It is like the dates in the newspaper—advertisements, which we must eschew, as you observe.

Other things, too, you observe, my beloved, which are altogether out of date. In your ways towards me, you have acted throughout too much ‘the woman’s part,’ as that is considered. You loved me because I was lower than others, that you might be generous and raise me up:—very characteristic for a woman (in her ideal standard) but quite wrong for a man, as again and again I used to signify to you, Robert—but you went on and did it all the same. And now, you still go on—you persist—you will be the woman of the play, to the last; let the prompter prompt ever so against you. You are to do everything I like, instead of my doing what _you_ like, ... and to ‘honour and obey’ _me_, in spite of what was in the vows last Saturday,—is _that_ the way of it and of you? and are vows to be kept _so_, pray? after that fashion? Then, _don’t_ put ‘at home’ at the corner of the cards, dearest! It is my command!

And forgive the inveterate jesting, which jests with eyes full of tears. I love you—I bless God for you. You are too good for me, as always I knew. I look up to you continually.

It is best, I continue to think, that you should not come here—best for _you_, because the position, if you were to try it, would be less tolerable than ever—and best for both of us, that in case the whole truth were ever discovered (I mean, of the previous marriage) we might be able to call it simply an act in order to security. I don’t know how to put my feeling into words, but I do seem to feel that it would be better, and less offensive to those whom we offend at any rate, to avoid all possible remark on this point. It seems better to a sort of instinct I have.

Then, if I see you—farewell, the letter-writing. Oh no—there will be time enough when we are on the railway!—We shall talk then.

Ah—you say such things to me! Dearest, dearest_est_!—And you do not start at that word, ‘Irrevocable,’ as I have had fancies that you might, when the time came!’ But you may recover, by putting out your hand, all you have given me, ... nearly all. I never, never, being myself, could willingly vex you, torment you. If I approach to it, you will tell me. I will confide in you, to that end also. Dearest.

And your father’s goodness, and the affectionateness of them all. When they shall have learnt most that I am not worthy of you, they will have learnt besides that I can be grateful to _them_ and you. Certainly I am capable, I hope, of loving them all, well and with appreciation. And then ... imagine the comfort I take to the deepest of my heart from these hands held out to me! For your sake! Yes, for your sake entirely!—and, so, the more dearly comforting to

Your very own BA.

There is still difficulty about the house. They think of Tunbridge Wells.

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

Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]

My own Ba, could you think me capable of such a step? I forget what I exactly said in the first letter, but in the second, which you have received by this, I know there is mention made of _your_ account which is to accompany mine. You never quite understood, I think, my feeling about Mr. Kenyon and desire to tell him earlier. In the first place, at the very _beginning_, he seemed to stand (as he did) in closer connection with you than any other person I could communicate with,—therefore to represent, in some degree, your dear self in the worldly sense, and be able to impose on me any conditions &c. which your generous nature might be silent on, and my ignorance and excitement overlook: then there was another reason, the natural one, of our own ... _his_ friendship, rather, for me, and the circumstance of his having in a manner introduced me to your acquaintance,—at all events, facilitated my introduction,—and so being after a fashion responsible in some degree for my conduct. These two reasons, added to a general real respect for his circumspection and sagacity, and a desire to make both of them instruct me in the way of doing you good. But you effectually convinced me that in neither case would the benefit derivable balance the certain injury, or at least, annoyance, to himself—while you showed me that I should not be so truly serving you, as I had intended, by the plans I used to turn over in my mind.

In brief, it was written that your proof of love and trust to me was to be complete, the _completest_—and I could not but be proud and submit—and a few words will explain the mere sin against friendship. I quite, quite feel as you feel, nor ever had the least intention of writing ... that is, of sending any letter,—till the very last. Be sure of it.

For the cards, I have just given orders, as you desire and as I entirely agree. The notion of a word about our _not being in England_ was only a fancy for your family’s sake—just to save people’s application to _them_, to know what had become of us—and I had heard Mr. Kenyon commend the considerateness of those ‘Lydian measures’ ... albeit there was ... or narrowly escaped being—an awful oversight of the traveller’s which would have made him the sad hero of a merry story for ever ... as I will tell you some day. If you will send the addresses, at any time, that trouble will be over. In all these mighty matters, be sure I shall never take the least step without consulting you—will you draw up the advertisement, please? I will supply the clergyman’s name &c. &c.

I shall not see one friend more before I leave with you. So that nobody needs divine that since the 12th, we have not been at Margate—seeking ‘food for the mind’—

11¾ A.M.

Dearest, I agree to all—I will not see you, for those reasons. I think, as you may, that it will be a point in excuse of the precipitancy that a removal was threatened for ‘next Monday perhaps’ ... which, finding us unprepared, would have been ruinous. Say all you would have me say to your father,—no concession shall be felt by the side of your love. I will write a few words to Mrs. J.—her kindness is admirable and deserves the attention. For the _date_,—you will have seen the precautions I take,—I hope to see nobody now; but I don’t know that it will be necessary to suppress it in the advertisement, if we can leave England by the end of the week, as I hope ... do you not hope, too? For I see announcements, in to-day’s _Times_, of marriages on the 8th and 9th and our silence on that particular might be only the beginning of some mystery ... as if it had happened half a year ago, for instance. Beside, your relations will examine the register. All rests with you, however—and _will_ rest, Ba! I shall ask you to do no more of my business that I can manage myself but where I can _not_ manage ... why, then you shall think for me,—that is my command!

I suppose when a man buys a spinning-machine he loses dignity because he lets _it_ weave stockings,—does not keep on with his clumsy fingers! No, I will retain my honours, be certain,—you shall say, _Ego et rex meus_ like Wolsey—or rather, like dear, dear Ba—like yourself I will ever _worship_! See the good of taking up arms against me out of that service! If you ‘honour and obey’ me, ‘with my body I thee worship’—my best, dearest, sweetest Ba, and that I have avowed thus ‘irrevocably’—is the heart’s delight of your own R.

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

Tuesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]

Dearest, you were in the right as usual, and I in a fright as sometimes. I took a mere fancy into my head about your writing to Mr. Kenyon. To-day he came, and I did not see him—on the ground of a headache, which, though real, was not really sufficient of itself to keep me from seeing him, if I had not distrusted my self-control—so I did not see him. To-morrow he goes away. His letters will of course be made to follow him, and we may easily precede the newspapers by a day or two.

As for the advertisements, you quite amuse me by telling me to compose an advertisement. How should I know better than you, dearest, or as well even? All I intermeddle with willingly is the matter of the date—although there is something in what you say about the mystery, and the idea of our being six months married—still it is our disquieted conscience that gives us such thoughts—and when the advertisement appears and the cards come out so very properly, people will not have enough imagination to apprehend a single mystery in the case: and the omission of the date will not be so singular ... will it? On the other hand I apprehend evil from the date of the marriage being known. One of my brothers may be sent to examine the register, but would not betray the fact in question, _I think_, to my father; would not, I am certain, willingly give cause for additional irritation against me. But if the date be publicly announced, Papa must know it, and most of my personal friends will be sure to know it. I have written letters and seen people since the twelfth ... Mr. Kenyon on Sunday, Miss Bordman on Monday. Moreover Papa would be exposed to unpleasant observations—he going every day among his City friends, and on Saturday among the rest. What quantities of good reasons, ... till you are tired of them and me!

Would you put it this way.... At such a church, by such a minister, Robert Browning Esquire, of New Cross, author of ‘Paracelsus,’ to Elizabeth Barrett, eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett Esquire of Wimpole Street. Would you put it so? I do not understand really, ... and whether you should be specified as the author of ‘Paracelsus’ ... but, for _me_, it ought to be, I think, simply as I have written it. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that what we did on Saturday is quite _invalid_, so that you may give me up now if you like—it isn’t too late. You gave me a wrong name—_Moulton_ is no Christian name of mine. Moulton Barrett is our family name; Elizabeth Barrett, my Christian name—Behold and see!

I will send the list if I can have time to-night to write it—but the haste, the hurry—do you think, when in your right mind, of getting away this week? Think of the work before us! Next Monday is the day fixed for the general departure to a house taken at Little Bookham or Hookham ... what is it? Well—we must think. Tell me when you want me to go. I might go from the new house, perhaps. But you will think, dearest, and tell me. Tell me first, though, how your head continues or begins again ... for I fear that the good news is too sudden to last long—I fear.

Thankful, thankful I shall be when we are gone out of reach of evil, when I shall have heard that my poor dearest Papa is only angry with me, and not sorry because of me, and that Henrietta and Arabel are not too miserable. They come between me and the thought of you often—but I do not, for _that_, love you less—oh no. You are best and dearest in saying what you say—only, observe, there is not any practicable ‘concession’ now for you. All you can do now, is what you will do ... in being tolerant, and gentle, for my sake. My own dearest, I am your

BA.

The list to-morrow.

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

Wednesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]

Ever dearest, you are right about the date ... so it shall be—and so the advertisement shall run, save and except the avowal of ‘Paracelsus’ ... I avow _you_, and to add another title of honour would succeed no better than in Dalhousie’s case, who was ‘God of War and Lieutenant-general to the Earl of Mar.’ I wanted the description &c. of your father. What a strange mistake I made—(but as for invalidation, oh no!)—I save your every word and then apply them thus! (In to-day’s _Times_ is a notice without a date ... not looking at all singular. It is far better).

It is absolutely for yourself to decide on the day and the mode—if for no other reason, because I am quite ready, and shall have no kind of difficulty; while you have every kind. Make the arrangements that promise most comfort to yourself. Observe the packets and alter the route if necessary. There is one from Brighton to Dieppe every day, for instance ... but then the getting to Rouen! The Havre-boat leaves Southampton, _Wednesdays_ and _Saturdays_—and Portsmouth, _Mondays_ and _Thursdays_. The boat from London, Thursdays and Saturdays at 9 A.M.

I do not know where ‘Bookham’ is—you must decide ... I am sure you will be anxious to get away.

The business of the letters will grow less difficult when once begun—see if it will not! and in these four or five days whole epics might be written, much more letters. Have you arranged all with Wilson? Take, of course, the simplest possible wardrobe &c.—so as to reduce our luggage to the very narrowest compass. The expense—(beside the common sense of a little luggage)—is considerable—every ounce being paid for. Let us treat our journey as a mere journey—we can return for what else we want, or get it sent, or procure it abroad. I shall take just a portmanteau and carpet bag. I think the fewer books we take the better; they take up room—and the wise way always seemed to me to read in rooms at home, and open one’s eyes and _see_ abroad. A critic somewhere mentioned _that_ as my characteristic—were two other poets he named placed in novel circumstances ... in a great wood, for instance, Mr. Trench would begin opening books to see how woods were treated of ... the other man would set to writing poetry forthwith, from his old stock of associations, on the new impulse—and R.B. would sit still and learn how to write after! A pretty compliment, I thought that!—But seriously there must be a great library at Pisa ... (with that university!) and abroad they are delighted to facilitate such matters ... I have read in a chamber of the Doges’ palace at Venice painted all over by Tintoretto, walls and ceiling—and at Rome there is a library with a learned priest always kept ready ‘to solve any doubt that may arise!’ Murray’s book you have, I think? Any guide-books &c.

Be sure, dearest, I will do my utmost to conciliate your father: sometimes I could not but speak impatiently to you of him ... that was while you were in his direct power—now there is no _need_ of a word in any case ... I shall be silent if the _worst imaginable_ happens; and if anything better, most grateful. You do not need to remind me he is your father ... I shall be proud to say _mine_ too. Then, he said _that_ of you—for which I love him—love the full prompt justice of that ascription of ‘perfect purity’—it is another voice responding to mine, confirming mine.

Good-bye, dearest dearest; I continue _quite_ well ... I thank God, as you do, and see his hand in it. My poor mother suffers greatly, but is no worse ... rather, better I hope. They (all here) will leave town for some quiet place at the beginning of October for some three weeks at least. Dear, kind souls they are.

Kiss me as I kiss you, dearest Ba. I can bring you no flowers but I pluck this bud and send it with all affectionate devotion.

Your own

R.B.

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

[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]

Dearest, the general departure from this house takes place on Monday—and the house at Little Bookham is six miles from the nearest railroad, and a mile and a half from Leatherhead where a coach runs. Now you are to judge. Certainly if I go with you on Saturday I shall not have half the letters written—you, who talk so largely of epic poems, have not the least imagination of my state of mind and spirits. I began to write a letter to Papa this morning, and could do nothing but cry, and looked so pale thereupon, that everybody wondered what could be the matter. Oh—quite well I am now, and I only speak of myself in that way to show you how the inspiration is by no means sufficient for epic poems. Still, I may certainly write the necessary letters, ... and do the others on the road ... could I, do you think? I would rather have waited—indeed rather—only it may be difficult to leave Bookham ... yet _possible_—so tell me what you would have me do.

Wilson and I have a light box and a carpet bag between us—and I will be docile about the books, dearest. Do you take a desk? Had I better not, I wonder?

Then for box and carpet bag.... Remember that we cannot take them out of the house with us. We must send them the evening before—Friday evening, if we went on Saturday ... and where? Have you a friend anywhere, to whose house they might be sent, or could they go direct to the railroad office—and what office? In that case they should have your name on them, should they not?

Now think for me, ever dearest—and tell me what you do not tell me ... that you continue better. Ah no—you are ill again—or you would not wait to be told to tell me. And the dear, dear little _bud_!—I shall keep it to the end of my life, if you love me so long, ... or _not_, sir! I thank you, dearest.

Your mother!—I am very, very sorry. Would it be better and kinder to wait on _her_ account?—tell me that too.

Yes, they are perfectly kind. We must love them well:—and _I_ shall, I am sure.

Mr. Kenyon sends the ‘Fawn,’ _which IS Landor’s Fawn_, and desires me to send it to you when I have done with it. As if I could read a word! He directs me to write to him to Taunton, Somersetshire. May God bless you, beloved.

No more to-night from your very own

BA.

Are not passengers allowed to carry a specific proportion of luggage? What do you mean then, by paying for every ounce? As to Dieppe, the diligence would be more fatiguing than the river, and, without strong reasons, one would prefer of course the Havre plan. Still I am not afraid of either. Think.

You might put in the newspaper ... of Wimpole Street and Jamaica, or ... and Cinnamon Hill, Jamaica. That is right and I thought of it at first—only stopped ... seeming to wish to have as little about poor Papa as possible. Do as you think best now.

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

[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]

My only sweetest, I will write just a word to catch the earlier post,—time pressing. Bless you for all you suffer ... I _know_ it though it would be very needless to call your attention to the difficulties. I know much, if not all, and can only love and admire you,—not help, alas!

Surely these difficulties will multiply, if you go to Bookham—the way will be to leave at once. The letters may easily be written during the journey ... at Orleans, for example. But now,—you propose _Saturday_ ... nothing leaves Southampton according to _to-day’s_ advertisement, till _Tuesday_ ... the days seemed changed to _Tuesdays_ and _Fridays_. To-morrow at 8¼ P.M. and Friday the 22, 10¼. Provoking! I will go to town directly to the railway office and enquire particularly—getting the time-table also. Under these circumstances, we have only the choice of Dieppe (as needing the shortest diligence-journey)—or the Sunday morning Havre-packet, at 9 A.M.—which you do not consider practicable: though it would, I think, take us the quickliest out of all the trouble. I will let you know all particulars in a note to-night ... it shall reach you to-night.

If we went from London only, the luggage could be sent here or in any case, perhaps ... as one fly will carry them with me and mine, and save possibility of delay.

I am _very_ well, dearest dearest—my mother no worse, better, perhaps—she is out now. Our staying and getting into trouble would increase her malady.

As you leave it to me,—the name, and ‘Wimpole St.’ will do. Jamaica sounds in the wrong direction, does it not? and the other place is distinctive enough.

Take no desk ... I will take a large one—take nothing you can leave—but secure letters &c. I will take out a passport. Did you not tell me roughly at how much you estimated our expenses for the journey? Because I will take about _that_ much, and get Rothschild’s letter of credit for Leghorn. One should avoid carrying money about with one.

All this in such haste! Bless you, my dearest dearest Ba

Your R.

All was right in the licence, and Certificate and Register—the whole name is there, E.B.M.B. The clergyman made the mistake in not having the _two_ names, but all runs right to _read_ ... the essential thing.

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

5 o’clock.
[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]

My own Ba, I believe, or am sure the mistake has been mine—in the flurry I noted down the departures from _Havre_—instead of _Southampton_. You must either be at the Vauxhall Station by _four_ o’clock—so as to arrive in 3 hours and a half at Southampton and leave by 8¼ P.M.—or must go by the Sunday Boat,—or _wait_ till Tuesday. Dieppe is impossible, being too early. You must decide—and let me know directly. To-morrow _is_ too early—yet one ... that is, _I_—could manage.

Ever your own, in all haste

R.B.

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

7½—Thursday
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]

My own Ba—forgive my mistaking! I had not enough confidence in my own correctness. The advertisement of the Tuesday and Friday Boats is of the South of England Steam Company. The Wednesday and Saturday is that of the _South Western_. There must be then _two_ companies, because on the Southampton Railway Bill it is expressly stated that there are departures for Havre on all four days. Perhaps you have seen my blunder. In that case, you can leave by 1-2½ as you may appoint—

Your R.

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

[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]

Dearest take this word, as if it were many. I am so tired—and then it shall be the right word.

Sunday and Friday are impossible. On Saturday I will go to you, if you like—with half done, ... nothing done ... scarcely. Will you come for me to Hodgson’s? or shall I meet you at the station? At what o’clock should I set out, to be there at the hour you mention?

Also, for the boxes ... we cannot carry them out of the house, you know, Wilson and I. They must be sent on Friday evening to the Vauxhall station, ‘to be taken care of.’ Will the people keep them carefully? Ought someone to be spoken to beforehand? If we sent them to New Cross, they would not reach you in time.

Hold me my beloved—with your love. It is very hard—But Saturday seems the only day for us. Tell me if you think so indeed.

Your very own BA.

The boxes must have your name on them of course. Let there be no great haste about sending out the cards. _Saturday_ might be mentioned in the advertisement, _without_ the date—might it not?

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

[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]

Dearest, here is the paper of addresses. I cannot remember, I am so confused, half of them.

Surely you say wrong in the hour for to-morrow. Also there is the express train. Would it not be better?

Your BA.

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

11½ Friday.
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]

My own best Ba. How thankful I am you have seen my blunder—I took the other company’s days for the South Western’s changed. What I shall write now is with the tables before me (of the Railway) and a transcript from _to-day’s_ advertisement in the _Times_.

The packet will leave to-morrow evening, from the Royal Pier, Southampton at _nine_. We leave Nine Elms, Vauxhall, at _five_—to arrive at _eight_. Doors close _five_ minutes before. I will be at Hodgson’s _from_ half-past three to _four precisely_ when I shall hope you can be ready. I shall go to Vauxhall, apprise them that luggage is coming (yours) and send _mine_ there—so that we both shall be unencumbered and we can take a cab or coach from H’s.

Never mind your scanty preparations ... we can get everything at Leghorn,—and the new boats carry parcels to Leghorn on the 15th of every month, remember—so can bring what you may wish to send for.

I enclose a letter to go with yours. The cards as you choose—they are here—we can write about them from Paris or elsewhere. The advertisement, as you advise. All shall be cared for.

God bless and strengthen you, my ever dearest dearest—I will not trust myself to speak of my feelings for you—worship well belongs to such fortitude. One struggle more—if all the kindness on your part brought a strangely insufficient return, is it not possible that this step may produce all you can hope? Write to me one word more. Depend on me. I go to Town about business.

Your own, own R.

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

Friday Night.
[Post-mark, September 19, 1846.]

At from half-past three to four, then—four will not, I suppose, be too late. I will not write more—_I cannot._ By to-morrow at this time, I shall have _you_ only, to love me—my beloved!

You _only_! As if one said _God only_. And we shall have _Him_ beside, I pray of Him.

I shall send to your address at New Cross your Hanmer’s poems—and the two dear books you gave me, which I do not like to leave here and am afraid of hurting by taking them with me. Will you ask _our_ Sister to put the parcel into a drawer, so as to keep it for us?

Your letters to me I take with me, let the ‘ounces’ cry out aloud, ever so. I _tried_ to leave them, and I could not. That is, they would not be left: it was not my fault—I will not be scolded.

Is this my last letter to you, ever dearest? Oh—if I loved you less ... a little, little less.

Why I should tell you that our marriage was invalid, or ought to be; and that you should by no means come for me to-morrow. It is dreadful ... dreadful ... to have to give pain here by a voluntary act—for the first time in my life.

Remind your mother and father of me affectionately and gratefully—and your Sister too! Would she think it too bold of me to say _our_ Sister, if she had heard it on the last page?

Do you pray for me to-night, Robert? Pray for me, and love me, that I may have courage, feeling both—

Your own

BA.

The boxes are _safely sent_. Wilson has been perfect to me. And _I_ ... calling her ‘timid,’ and afraid of her timidity! I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

(See Vol. I., p. 443)]

INDEX

=Transcriber’s Note:= Volume 1 is available as Project Gutenberg eBook #16182. Unfortunately, the page numbers were not preserved in that volume.

Acton, Cardinal, i. 149

Adams, Mrs., i. 555

Ælian, i. 371, 377, 540; ii. 196, 202

Æschylus, i. 15, 31ff., 34, 35ff., 38ff., 45, 61, 88, 171, 313

Alfieri, Vittorio, i. 53

Andersen, Hans Christian (‘The Dane’), i. 53, 161;
his ‘Improvisatore,’ i. 45, 50, 52, 54;
his ‘Only a Fiddler,’ i. 154, 160

Angelico, Fra, i. 196

Apuleius, E.B.B.’s translations from, i. 168

Arnould, Joseph (afterwards Sir), ii. 102, 115, 412, 466, 487

Asolo, i. 113

‘Athenæum,’ the, i. 155, 161, 166, 288, 323, 326, 389, 395, 412, 416,
542, 558, 572; ii. 33, 35, 102, 158, 176, 307, 343, 421

Australia (proposals for E.B.B. to write ballads, &c. for), ii. 481

‘Autography,’ i. 317, 319, 323; ii. 188

Babbage, C., i. 24

Bacon, Lord, i. 481, 485

Bailey, P. J., his ‘Festus,’ i. 375, 384

Balzac, H. de, ii. 35, 91, 93, 107, 113

Barrett, Alfred, brother of E.B.B., i. 193, 195; ii. 177

Barrett, Arabel, sister of E.B.B., i. 101, 193, 216, 219, 330, 542;
ii. 329, 334 and passim

Barrett, Charles John (‘Stormie’) brother of E.B.B., i. 219, 417,
575; ii. 109, 111, 408, 458

Barrett, Edward (‘Bro’), brother of E.B.B., his death, i. 175ff.

Barrett, Edward Moulton, father of E.B.B., i. 123, 131, 141, 167,
175, 190, 192, 213, 218, 235, 241ff., 409, 506, 530; ii. 26,
109, 152, 270, 293, 332, 334, 340, 342, 384, 450, 487, 489, 551

Barrett, Elizabeth Barrett:
on poetic composition, i. 21
on her translation of ‘Prometheus Bound,’ i. 31
proposes to write a ‘novel’ or ‘romance’ poem, i. 32, 151, 154, 271
project of writing a drama (‘Psyché Apocalypté’) with R. H. Horne,
i. 61
American appreciation, i. 115, 307; ii. 152, 166, 184, 429
proposals for wintering abroad, i. 131ff., 135, 167, 190, 209ff.,
218, 225, 229, 234ff., 241
religious views, i. 145; ii. 429
on George Sand, i. 165
on the death of her brother Edward, i. 175ff.
references to her dangerous illness, i. 43, 176; ii. 26
American publishers, i. 188, 189, 258, 260
on her pet name ‘Ba,’ i. 192, 195, 342, 345
her portrait, i. 195; ii. 12, 19
requests R.B.’s autograph for a friend, i. 227
on R.B.’s poetry, i. 268ff.; ii. 491
sends a ring and lock of hair to R.B., i. 308, 309
opinions on French fiction, i. 341; ii. 102
on women’s position and married life, i. 351ff.; ii. 424
early reading, i. 406
French verses, i. 405
on R.B.’s letters, i. 418, 423, 486, 493; ii. 18
on the publication of letters, i. 484
on autograph collectors, i. 535
on the difficulties of her engagement with R.B., ii. 33, 78, 81,
122, 141, 220, 222, 228, 230, 233, 336, 341, 374, 378, 383,
385, 396, 416, 458, 464, 494
on artistic Bohemianism, ii. 30
on the curiosity of strangers, their visits, letters &c., ii. 31,
73, 169, 423, 472
on duelling, ii. 40ff., 45, 53ff.
on Raffael’s portrait, ii. 149
plans for going to Italy with R.B., ii. 208, 210, 275, 278ff., 288,
320, 379, 391, 417, 473, 479, 481, 490, 502ff., 506, 511
proposal for her to visit New Cross, ii. 226, 231
her money affairs, ii. 229, 235, 365, 368, 400ff., 408, 476
visit to the Great Western Railway, ii. 234, 435
visit to Mr. Rogers’ picture gallery, ii. 251, 262
visits to H. S. Boyd described, ii. 259, 282
on the death of B. R. Haydon, ii. 265, 271;
on Horne’s verses on Haydon, ii. 299;
bequest of his MSS. to E.B.B., ii. 304ff., 307, 309ff., 315ff.,
322ff., 326
on women and politics, ii. 283
her visit to Finchley, ii. 444, 447, 452
‘Blackwood’s Magazine’s’ offer to print her lyrics, ii. 459, 466,
478
visit to church, and the effect of music on her, ii. 460, 468, 492
proposal to write ballads &c. for Australia, ii. 481
her marriage, ii. 539 _n._, 541

Barrett, Elizabeth Barrett, works:
‘Bertha in the Lane,’ i. 10, 148, 271
‘Catarina to Camoens,’ i. 148, 425
‘The Cry of the Children,’ proposals for musical setting, i. 524,
537
‘A Drama of Exile,’ i. 10, 19
‘An Essay on Mind,’ i. 129, 132, 134, 136, 383
‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,’ i. 32, 149, 162, 271
‘Past and Future,’ i. 282
‘Poems,’ 2 vols. 1844, i. 9, 189, 281; ii. 285;
American edition, i. 186, 187
‘Rhyme of the Duchess May,’ i. 10
‘The Romaunt of Margret,’ i. 383
‘The Romaunt of the Page,’ i. 10
‘The Seraphim,’ i. 130, 189, 383
‘Two Sketches,’ i. 193.
‘The Vision of Fame,’ i. 132
‘A Vision of Poets,’ i. 147, 383
‘Wine of Cyprus,’ ii. 443, 446, 448
Translations from Bion, Theocritus, Apuleius, Nonnus, i. 168,
170ff., 497, ii. 8;
from Homer, i. 579, ii. 8, 22, 25, 69, 139, 161;
from Æschylus i. 31, 34, 76, 140, 142, 149, 151, ii. 459;
from Pietro d’Abano, i. 462

Barrett, George, brother of E.B.B., i. 192, 196, 216, 219, 229, 235,
241, 289, 319, 322, 404, 439, 444, 492, 496, 500; ii. 115, 441

Barrett, Henrietta, sister of E.B.B., i. 128, 193, 331, 408, 433,
437, 516; ii. 141, 334, 387, 490 and passim

Barrett, Henry, brother of E.B.B., i. 158

Barrett, Lizzie, cousin of E.B.B., i. 522; ii. 245

Barrett, Mary (E.B.B.’s mother), ii. 484

Barrett, Octavius (‘Occy’) brother of E.B.B., his illness, i. 236ff.,
241ff., 247ff., 265

Barrett, Sam, cousin of E.B.B., i. 522

Bartoli, his ‘Simboli,’ i. 539, 541, 545

Bayley, Miss, i. 300, 303, 304; ii. 22, 109, 111, 114, 120, 137, 196,
552;
her plans for taking E.B.B. to Italy, ii. 191, 198, 208, 244

Beethoven, i. 533; ii. 153;
his ‘Fidelio,’ i. 161

Benjamin of Tudela, R., i. 153

Bennet, Miss Georgiana, ii. 73, 80, 110, 225, 329, 369

Bennett, W. C., ii. 106, 124, 330, 366, 389

Bevan, Mr., ii. 334

Bezzi, Mr., ii. 139, 191

‘Blackwood’s Magazine,’ i. 23; ii. 459, 466, 478

Blake, William, ii. 319

Blessington, Lady, i. 157

Boccaccio, Giovanni, i. 45, 393

Boyd, Hugh Stuart, i. 100, 236, 342; ii. 259, 261, 282, 407, 442,
443, 446, 459, 471, 541

Bremer, Miss, ii. 119

‘British Quarterly,’ the, i. 268

Browne, Sir Thomas, ii. 52, 53

Browning, Miss, i. 147, 153, 189, 519; ii. 165, 168, 204, 412, 566

Browning, Mrs., senior, i. 147; ii. 456, 483, 500

Browning, R., senior, i. 28, 147, 496; ii. 427, 549;
his drawings for R.B.’s poems, i. 415, 434;
his early life, ii. 477, 483, 484

Browning, Robert:
Mr. Kenyon’s offer of introduction to Miss Barrett, i. 2, 281
on E.B.B.’s poems, i. 9, 147
helps Carlyle with his ‘Cromwell,’ i. 16
on the attitude of the public towards his work, i. 17ff.
first visit to E.B.B., i. 72 _n._
account of the ‘bora’ at Trieste, i. 126
on ‘The Flight of the Duchess,’ i. 138
on George Sand, i. 163
baptised at an Independent Chapel, i. 147
reference to his visit to St. Petersburg, i. 155
on dramatic poetry and novels, i. 155, 161
on reading law with Basil Montagu, i. 199
his early life, i. 200, 349
on the performance of ‘Every Man in his Humour,’ i. 212, 217
his portrait in the ‘New Spirit of the Age,’ i. 316; ii. 219
sends a lock of hair to E.B.B., i. 304, 332
his visit to R. H. Horne, i. 366ff.
on R. H. Horne’s ‘Ballad Romances,’ i. 370
French verses, i. 420
on a proposal of a journey to St. Petersburg, i. 489, 507
on music, i. 543
plants rose-trees, ii. 10
thoughts for future work, i. 457; ii. 25, 390
on duelling, ii. 33, 46ff., 58
on the rearrangement of his poems, ii. 71
on French romance, ii. 107
his birthday, ii. 136
at the Royal Literary Fund Dinner, ii. 143, 145, 148, 151, 158
proposal to write a long poem, ii. 176, 181
‘Mr. Forster’s “Strafford,”’ ii. 215
meets a phrenologist, ii. 216, 219
on his engagement with E.B.B., ii. 227
proposes to seek Government employment, ii. 229, 232, 236, 248
on the death of B. R. Haydon, ii. 264, 268, 318ff.
plans for his marriage, ii. 269, 376
on Parliament, ii. 281
on his name, ii. 285, 286
on Italian post offices, ii. 110, 289
on Horne’s verses on Haydon’s death, ii. 303
on Haydon’s bequest of MSS. to E.B.B., ii. 307, 315ff., 326
on strangers’ letters, ii. 330
his dream on Haydon, ii. 331
on E.B.B.’s letters, i. 296, 420; ii. 8, 249, 420, 436
on E.B.B.’s religious opinions, ii. 436
on Lord Byron, ii. 455
final preparations for their journey to Italy, ii. 465ff., 475,
495ff., 537, 555, 559 and ff.
early compositions in imitation of Ossian, ii. 469
his marriage, ii. 539 _n._
his family’s attitude towards E.B.B., ii. 547, 549

Browning, Robert, works:
‘Bells and Pomegranates,’ i. 9, 13, 99, 132, 135, 144, 148, 320,
361; ii. 429;
see also ‘Dramatic Romances and Lyrics,’ ‘Luria,’ and ‘A Soul’s
Tragedy’
meaning of the phrase, i. 248, 250, 575; ii. 2, 67
‘The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church,’ i. 134, 253,
278
‘The Blot in the Scutcheon,’ i. 324
‘The Boy and the Angel,’ (‘Theocrite,’ ‘Angel and Child’), i. 134,
261
‘Claret and Tokay’ (Nationality in Drinks’), i. 131, 135
‘Colombe’s Birthday,’ ii. 456, 468
‘Count Gismond,’ i. 177
Dante, translation from, i. 348, 355
‘Dramatic Romances and Lyrics,’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No.
VII.), i. 59, 66
proof of, i. 259, 260, 261, 262
its publication, i. 265, 266, 267
E.B.B. on, i. 268ff.
to C. Mathews, i. 320
Mr. Kenyon on, i. 274
Mr. Fox on, i. 277, 278
noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ i. 286
noticed in the ‘New Monthly,’ i. 360
noticed in the ‘Athenæum,’ i. 412, 416
‘Earth’s Immortalities,’ i. 261
‘The Englishman in Italy,’ (‘England in Italy,’ ‘Fortú,’ ‘Sorrento
Lines,’) i. 253, 268, 269, 278
‘The Flight of the Duchess,’ i. 55, 58ff., 63, 76, 97, 104ff., 113,
115, 120, 122, 124, 129, 131, 135, 139, 148, 149ff., 245, 253,
261, 274, 277; ii. 91
An Elementary French Book, i. 208
‘Garden Fancies,’ i. 134
‘The Glove,’ i. 261, 278
‘Home Thoughts from Abroad’ (‘Spring Song’), i., 229ff.
‘Home Thoughts from the Sea,’ i. 253
‘How we brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,’ (‘The Ride’) i.
274, 278ff.
‘The Italian in England,’ (‘Italy in England’) i. 160, 278
‘The Laboratory,’ i. 135
‘The Lost Leader,’ i. 253
‘The Lost Mistress,’ i. 253, 269
‘Luria: a Tragedy’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No. VIII.), i. 18, 22,
26, 30, 58, 60, 80, 84, 85, 261, 272, 426, 470, 474; ii. 2, 13,
21, 369
E.B.B. on, i. 276ff., 286, 313, 354, 359ff., 421ff., 462, 471, 545,
579; ii. 77
proof of, ii. 12, 17
dedication of, ii. 12, 19, 44, 66ff.
publication of, ii. 66
Mr. Kenyon on, ii. 82
Carlyle on, ii. 90
Mr. Chorley on, ii. 92
noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ ii. 108, 412
‘Night and Morning,’ i. 261
‘Only a Player Girl,’ i. 155, 160
‘Paracelsus,’ i. 63, 208, 246, 323, 327, 382, 395
‘Pauline,’ i. 388, 393, 399, 402, 405, 420, 423
reviewed by J. S. Mill, i. 29, 33
‘Pictor Ignotus,’ i. 253, 278
Pietro d’Abano, Translation from, i. 462, 466
‘Pippa Passes,’ i. 12, 22, 24, 28, 100; ii. 349
‘Saul,’ i. 59, 60, 76, 179, 183, 191, 261, 278, 326
Blue lilies in, i. 527, 558, 561
‘Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,’ i. 22
‘Song,’ i. 261
‘Sordello,’ i. 134, 193, 247, 348, 457, 472
‘A Soul’s Tragedy,’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No. VIII.), i. 26,
30, 97, 470, 474; ii. 16, 34, 67, 92
E.B.B. on, i. 545; ii. 13ff., 17, 34, 77
publication of, ii. 66
Mr. Kenyon on, ii. 83
Mr. Chorley on, ii. 92
noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ ii. 108

Buckingham, Mr., i. 564, 565, 570, 576

Bulwer, Sir Edward Lytton, afterwards first Lord Lytton, i. 246
his ‘Alice,’ i. 161
his ‘Ernest Maltravers,’ i. 161, 166
his ‘Last Days of Pompeii,’ i. 156

Bunn, Alfred, i. 572; ii. 136

Bunyan, J., ii. 37

Burdett-Coutts, Miss, i. 564

Burges, George, i. 168, 170, 171, 497, 548, 554

Burns, R., i. 481

Bury, Lady Charles, her ‘Reminiscences,’ i. 228

Butler, Mrs. (Fanny Kemble), her poems, ii. 27, 38, 389, 391

Butler, Samuel, his ‘Hudibras’ quoted, i. 568

Byron, Lady, i. 130

Byron, Lord, i. 126; ii. 455, 464, 473

Calderon, i. 66

‘Cambridge Advertiser,’ the, ii. 28

Campbell, Miss, ii. 171, 172, 174ff., 179, 184

Campbell, Thomas, ii. 286

Carlyle, Mrs., i. 194, 238; ii. 252, 255

Carlyle, Thomas, i. 25, 27, 29, 30, 32, 151, 152, 158, 194, 260, 316,
457, 459; ii. 8, 80, 81, 84, 90, 92, 98, 160, 185, 238, 277
‘Oliver Cromwell,’ i. 16, 25, 450; ii. 2, 286

Cerutti’s Italian Grammar, i. 468

Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote,’ i. 46

Chambers, Dr., i. 123, 125, 158, 176, 186, 188, 189; ii. 255

Chapman, George, i. 98, 337

Chaucer, Geoffrey, i. 160, 267, 337, 393, 429

Chesterfield, Lord, i. 529; ii. 105

Chorley, H. F., i. 45, 107, 108, 144, 148, 154, 288, 295, 298, 315,
388, 394ff., 400, 482, 486, 492, 496, 548, 555ff., 573; ii. 92,
102, 107, 131, 135, 346, 349, 351, 353, 411, 437, 441, 443,
456, 487
his ‘Pomfret,’ i. 273, 279, 283, 291, 292

‘Christus Patiens,’ i. 171

Cimarosa, D., i. 544

Claude le Jeune, i. 543, 545

Clayton, John, i. 529

Cokers, the Misses, ii. 178, 184

Cocks, Lady Margaret, ii. 127, 131, 242

Colburn, Henry, i. 200

Coleridge, S. T., i. 280, 337, 366; ii. 83, 456

Colonna, Vittoria, i. 116

Compton, Lord, ii. 28, 29

Cook, Surtees, Captain, i. 424, 439, 516, 541; ii. 354, 355, 387, 490

Corelli, A., i. 544

Crashaw, Richard, i. 337

Cushman, Miss, i. 154, 160, 395, 446

‘Daily News,’ i. 403, 409, 424; ii. 28, 135, 177, 299, 339

Dante, i. 53, 55, 56, 57, 116, 309, 348, 355, 576; ii. 277

Darwin, Erasmus, i. 383

De Lamennais, L’Abbé, ii. 108

De Musset, Alfred, ii. 108

Dickens, Charles, i. 69, 217, 260, 394, 444; ii. 116, 122, 135
his ‘Cricket on the Hearth,’ i. 345, 355
his ‘Pictures from Italy,’ ii. 168, 169

Diderot, Denis, i. 114, 118

Dilke, C. W., i. 396; ii. 135, 177

D’Israeli, Benjamin, his ‘Sybil,’ i. 124
his ‘Vivian Grey,’ i. 52, 53ff., 56

Domett, Alfred, i. 17, 296, 531; ii. 351

Donne, Dr. John, i. 27, 145, 196, 420, 440; ii. 116

D’Orsay, Count, ii. 135, 138

Dowland, John, i. 545

Doyle, John (‘H. B.,’) ii. 432

Drayton, M., his ‘Nymphidia,’ i. 373

Dryden, John, i. 23

Dulwich Galleries, the two, i. 518, 523, 525, 528

Dumas, Alexander, ii. 103, 346
his ‘Monte Cristo,’ ii. 215, 340

Eagles, Mr., ii. 374, 453

Elliotson, Dr., i. 118

Etty, William, ii. 189, 191

Euripides, i. 21