R.B. to E.B.B.
[Post-mark, March 16, 1846.]
Indeed I would, dearest Ba, go with entire gladness and pride to see a light that came from your room — why should that surprise you? Well, you will know one day.
We understand each other too about the sofas and gilding — oh, I know you, my own sweetest! For me, if I had set those matters to heart, I should have turned into the obvious way of getting them — not out of it, as I did resolutely from the beginning. All I meant was, to express a very natural feeling — if one could give you diamonds for flowers, and if you liked diamonds, — then, indeed! As it is, wherever we are found shall be, if you please, ‘For the love’s sake found therein — sweetest house was ever seen!’
Mr. Kenyon must be merciful. Lilies are of all colours in Palestine — one sort is particularized as white with a dark blue spot and streak — the water lily, lotos, which I think I meant, is blue altogether.
I have walked this morning to town and back — I feel much better, ‘honestly’! The head better — the spirits rising — as how should they not, when you think all will go well in the end, when you write to me that you go down-stairs and are stronger — and when the rest is written?
Not more now, dearest, for time is pressing, but you will answer this, — the love that is not here, — not the idle words, and I will reply to-morrow. Thursday is so far away yet!
Bless you, my very own, only dearest!
E.B.B. to R.B.
Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 17, 1846.]
Dearest, you are dearest always! Talk of Sirens, ... there must be some masculine ones ‘rari nantes,’ I fancy, (though we may not find them in unquestionable authorities like your Ælian!) to justify this voice I hear. Ah, how you speak, with that pretension, too, to dumbness! What should people be made of, in order to bear such words, do you think? Will all the wax from all the altar-candles in the Sistine Chapel, keep the piercing danger from their ears? Being tied up a good deal tighter than Ulysses did not save me. Dearest dearest: I laugh, you see, as usual, not to cry! But deep down, deeper than the Sirens go, deep underneath the tides, there, I bless and love you with the voice that makes no sound.
Other human creatures (how often I do think it to myself!) have their good things scattered over their lives, sown here and sown there, down the slopes, and by the waysides. But with me ... I have mine all poured down on one spot in the midst of the sands! — if you knew what I feel at moments, and at half-hours, when I give myself up to the feeling freely and take no thought of red eyes. A woman once was killed with gifts, crushed with the weight of golden bracelets thrown at her: and, knowing myself, I have wondered more than a little, how it was that I could bear this strange and unused gladness, without sinking as the emotion rose. Only I was incredulous at first, and the day broke slowly ... and the gifts fell like the rain ... softly; and God gives strength, by His providence, for sustaining blessings as well as stripes. Dearest —
For the rest I understand you perfectly — perfectly. It was simply to your thoughts, that I replied ... and that you need not say to yourself any more, as you did once to me when you brought me flowers, that you wished they were diamonds. It was simply to prevent the accident of such a thought, that I spoke out mine. You would not wish accidentally that you had a double-barrelled gun to give me, or a cardinal’s hat, or a snuff box, and I meant to say that you might as well — as diamonds and satin sofas à la Chorley. Thoughts are something, and your thoughts are something more. To be sure they are!
You are better you say, which makes me happy of course. And you will not make the ‘better’ worse again by doing wrong things — that is my petition. It was the excess of goodness to write those two letters for me in one day, and I thank you, thank you. Beloved, when you write, let it be, if you choose, ever so few lines. Do not suffer me (for my own sake) to tire you, because two lines or three bring you to me ... remember ... just as a longer letter would.
But where, pray, did I say, and when, that ‘everything would end well?’ Was that in the dream, when we two met on the stairs? I did not really say so I think. And ‘well’ is how you understand it. If you jump out of the window you succeed in getting to the ground, somehow, dead or alive ... but whether that means ‘ending well,’ depends on your way of considering matters. I am seriously of opinion nevertheless, that if ‘the arm,’ you talk of, drops, it will not be for weariness nor even for weakness, but because it is cut off at the shoulder. I will not fail to you, — may God so deal with me, so bless me, so leave me, as I live only for you and shall. Do you doubt that, my only beloved! Ah, you know well — too well, people would say ... but I do not think it ‘too well’ myself, ... knowing you.
Your
Ba.
Here is a gossip which Mr. Kenyon brought me on Sunday — disbelieving it himself, he asseverated, though Lady Chantrey said it ‘with authority,’ — that Mr. Harness had offered his hand heart and ecclesiastical dignities to Miss Burdett Coutts. It is Lady Chantrey’s and Mr. Kenyon’s secret, remember.
And ... will you tell me? How can a man spend four or five successive months on the sea, most cheaply — at the least pecuniary expense, I mean? Because Miss Mitford’s friend Mr. Buckingham is ordered by his medical adviser to complete his cure by these means; and he is not rich. Could he go with sufficient comfort by a merchant’s vessel to the Mediterranean ... and might he drift about among the Greek islands?
R.B. to E.B.B.
Tuesday.
‘Out of window’ would be well, as I see the leap, if it ended (so far as I am concerned) in the worst way imaginable — I would I ‘run the risk’ (Ba’s other word) rationally, deliberately, — knowing what the ordinary law of chances in this world justifies in such a case; and if the result after all was unfortunate, it would be far easier to undergo the extremest penalty with so little to reproach myself for, — than to put aside the adventure, — waive the wondrous probability of such best fortune, in a fear of the barest possibility of an adverse event, and so go to my grave, Walter the Penniless, with an eternal recollection that Miss Burdett Coutts once offered to wager sundry millions with me that she could throw double-sixes a dozen times running — which wager I wisely refused to accept because it was not written in the stars that such a sequence might never be. I had rather, rather a thousand-fold lose my paltry stake, and be the one recorded victim to such an unexampled unluckiness that half a dozen mad comets, suns gone wrong, and lunatic moons must have come laboriously into conjunction for my special sake to bring it to pass, which were no slight honour, properly considered! — And this is my way of laughing, dearest Ba, when the excess of belief in you, and happiness with you, runs over and froths if it don’t sparkle — underneath is a deep, a sea not to be moved. But chance, chance! there is no chance here! I have gained enough for my life, I can only put in peril the gaining more than enough. You shall change altogether my dear, dearest love, and I will be happy to the last minute on what I can remember of this past year — I could do that. Now, jump with me out, Ba! If you feared for yourself — all would be different, sadly different — But saying what you do say, promising ‘the strength of arm’ — do not wonder that I call it an assurance of all being ‘well’! All is best, as you promise — dear, darling Ba! — and I say, in my degree, with all the energy of my nature, as you say, promise as you promise — only meaning a worship of you that is solely fit for me, fit by position — are not you my ‘mistress?’ Come, some good out of those old conventions, in which you lost faith after the Bower’s disappearance, (it was carried by the singing angels, like the house at Loretto, to the Siren’s isle where we shall find it preserved in a beauty ‘very rare and absolute’) — is it not right you should be my Lady, my Queen? and you are, and ever must be, dear Ba. Because I am suffered to kiss the lips, shall I ever refuse to embrace the feet? and kiss lips, and embrace feet, love you wholly, my Ba! May God bless you —
Ever your own,
R.
&nbs
p; It would be easy for Mr. Buckingham to find a Merchant-ship bound for some Mediterranean port, after a week or two in harbour, to another and perhaps a third — Naples, Palermo, Syra, Constantinople, and so on. The expense would be very trifling, but the want of comfort enormous for an invalid — the one advantage is the solitariness of the one passenger among all those rough new creatures. I like it much, and soon get deep into their friendship, but another has other ways of viewing matters. No one article provided by the ship in the way of provisions can anybody touch. Mr. B. must lay in his own stock, and the horrors of dirt and men’s ministry are portentous, yet by a little arrangement beforehand much might be done. Still, I only know my own powers of endurance, and counsel nobody to gain my experience. On the other hand, were all to do again, I had rather have seen Venice so, with the five or six weeks’ absolute rest of the mind’s eyes, than any other imaginable way, — except Balloon-travelling.
Do you think they meant Landor’s ‘Count Julian’ — the ‘subject of his tragedy’ sure enough, — and that he was the friend of Southey? So it struck me —
E.B.B. to R.B.
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 18, 1846.]
Ah well — we shall see. Only remember that it is not my fault if I throw the double sixes, and if you, on [some sun-shiny day, (a day too late to help yourself) stand face to face with a milkwhite unicorn.]26 Ah — do not be angry. It is ungrateful of me to write so — I put a line through it to prove I have a conscience after all. I know that you love me, and I know it so well that I was reproaching myself severely not long ago, for seeming to love your love more than you. Let me tell you how I proved that, or seemed. For ever so long, you remember, I have been talking finely about giving you up for your good and so on. Which was sincere as far as the words went — but oh, the hypocrisy of our souls! — of mine, for instance! ‘I would give you up for your good’ — but when I pressed upon myself the question whether (if I had the power) I would consent to make you willing to be given up, by throwing away your love into the river, in a ring like Charlemagne’s, ... why I found directly that I would throw myself there sooner. I could not do it in fact — I shrank from the test. A very pitiful virtue of generosity, is your Ba’s! Still, it is not possible, I think, that she should ‘love your love more than you.’ There must be a mistake in the calculation somewhere — a figure dropt. It would be too bad for her!
Your account of your merchantmen, though with Venice in the distance, will scarcely be attractive to a confirmed invalid, I fear — and yet the steamers will be found expensive beyond his means. The sugar-vessels, which I hear most about, give out an insufferable smell and steam — let us talk of it a little on Thursday. On Monday I forgot.
For Landor’s ‘Julian,’ oh no, I cannot fancy it to be probable that those Parisians should know anything of Landor, even by a mistake. Do you not suppose that the play is founded (confounded) on Shelley’s poem, as the French use materials ... by distraction, into confusion? The ‘urn by the Adriatic’ (which all the French know how to turn upside down) fixes the reference to Shelley — does it not?
Not a word of the head — what does that mean, I wonder. I have not been down-stairs to-day — the wind is too cold — but you have walked? ... there was no excuse for you. God bless you, ever dearest. It is my last word till Thursday’s first. A fine queen you have, by the way! — a queen Log, whom you had better leave in the bushes! Witness our hand....
Ba — Regina.
R.B. to E.B.B.
[Post-mark, March 18, 1846.]
Indeed, dearest, you shall not have last word as you think, — all the ‘risk’ shall not be mine, neither; how can I, in the event, throw ambs-ace (is not that the old word?) and not peril your stakes too, when once we have common stock and are partners? When I see the unicorn and grieve proportionately, do you mean to say you are not going to grieve too, for my sake? And if so — why, you clearly run exactly the same risk, — must, — unless you mean to rejoice in my sorrow! So your chance is my chance; my success your success, you say, and my failure, your failure, will you not say? You see, you see, Ba, my own — own! What do you think frightened me in your letter for a second or two? You write ‘Let us talk on Thursday ... Monday I forgot’ — which I read, — ’no, not on Thursday — I had forgotten! It is to be Monday when we meet next’! — whereat
... as a goose
In death contracts his talons close,
as Hudibras sings — I clutched the letter convulsively — till relief came.
So till to-morrow — my all-beloved! Bless you. I am rather hazy in the head as Archer Gurney will find in due season — (he comes, I told you) — but all the morning I have been going for once and for ever through the ‘Tragedy,’ and it is done — (done for). Perhaps I may bring it to-morrow — if my sister can copy all; I cut out a huge kind of sermon from the middle and reserve it for a better time — still it is very long; so long! So, if I ask, may I have ‘Luria’ back to morrow? So shall printing begin, and headache end — and ‘no more for the present from your loving’
R.B.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Friday.
[Post-mark, March 20, 1846.]
I shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have been here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly ‘Go away that I may write.’ Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by a whole half-hour or three quarters — the stars are against us. He is coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and clear — and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so complimentary to me — I will tell you. The writer doesn’t see anything ‘in Browning and Turner,’ she confesses — ’may perhaps with time and study,’ but for the present sees nothing, — only has wide-open eyes of admiration for E.B.B. ... now isn’t it satisfactory to me? Do you understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare? — to be found on the level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia, ten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ... except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I?
Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the ‘risks’ I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike simplicity (‘gods and bulls,’ dearest!) as you made show of yesterday? If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of ‘my stakes?’ and would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as partners, that we ran ‘equal risks’? I trow not — and so do you ... when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and noir into ‘one red’ of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the point of happiness when you knew me first? — and if now I lose (as I certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have given me, why still I am your debtor for the gift ... now see! Yet to bring you down into my ashes ... that has been so intolerable a possibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run more risk than you, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself again if you were unhappy. ‘What had I to do,’ I should think, ‘with touching your life?’ And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice — which is the uttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any more — not even for you! You, for you ... is all I can!
Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the headache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon. I do, do beseech you to spare yourself, and let ‘Luria’ go as he is, and above all things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them in those notes. Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to say, ‘Now I will be well again.’ Ever dearest, care for me in yourself — say how you are.... I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged and weak rather with the cold ... and look at your flowers for courage and an assurance that
the summer is within hearing. May God bless you ... blessing us, beloved!
Your own
Ba.
Mr. Poe has sent me his poems and tales — so now I must write to thank him for his dedication. Just now I have the book. As to Mr. Buckingham, he will go, Constantinople and back, before we talk of him.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]
Dearest, — it just strikes me that I might by some chance be kept in town this morning — (having to go to Milnes’ breakfast there) — so as not to find the note I venture to expect, in time for an answer by our last post to-night. But I will try — this only is a precaution against the possibility. Dear, dear Ba! I cannot thank you, know not how to thank you for the notes! I adopt every one, of course, not as Ba’s notes but as Miss Barrett’s, not as Miss Barrett’s but as anybody’s, everybody’s — such incontestable improvements they suggest. When shall I tell you more ... on Monday or Tuesday? That I must know — because you appointed Monday, ‘if nothing happened — ’ and Mr. K. happened — can you let me hear by our early post to-morrow — as on Monday I am to be with Moxon early, you know — and no letters arrive before 11-1/2 or 12. I was not very well yesterday, but to-day am much better — and you, — I say how I am precisely to have a double right to know all about you, dearest, in this snow and cold! How do you bear it? And Mr. K. spoke of ‘that being your worst day.’ Oh, dear dearest Ba, remember how I live in you — on the hopes, with the memory of you. Bless you ever!
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 364
