book I
lent you, ‘You had accomplished a journey to the other end of the room, even’! And _now_! I thankfully _know_ this to be miraculous—nor have I to ask my spiritual director’s opinion thereon—to whom, how on earth can one surrender one’s private right of judgment when it is only by the exercise of that very right that I select him from the multitude of would-be directors of me and the whole world? What but a deliberate act of judgment takes up Dr. Pusey of Oxford rather than Mrs. Fox of Finsbury—and is it for _that_ pernicious first step that I determine on never risking a second?
Bless you, ever dearest—and do you bless your
very own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday. [Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]
Dearest, the leaf of yesterday was folded down quite smoothly and softly. A dinner party swept the thought of you out of people’s minds. Otherwise I was prepared to be a little afraid,—for my aunt said to Arabel, upon being dispensed with so cavalierly from this room, ... (said in the passage, Arabel told me, with a half-laugh,) ‘Pray which of Ba’s lovers may _this_ be?’ So Arabel had to tell the name of the visitor. But the dinner-party set all right, and this morning I was asked simply whether it had been an agreeable visit, and what you had written, and banalities after such a fashion.
Oh, and I went out ... remembering your desire ... was it not a desire, dearest, dearest? I went out, any way—but the wind blew, and I had to hold my veil against my mouth, doubled, and trebled ... with as many folds, indeed, as Ajax’s shield ... to keep myself in breathing order. The wind always gives me a sort of strangling sensation, which is the effect, I suppose, of having weak lungs. So it was not a long walk, but I liked it because you seemed to be with me still,—and Arabel, who walked with me, was ‘sure, without being told, that I had had a happy visit, just from my manner.’ The wisest of interpreters, I called her, and _pour cause_.
If ever I mistake you, Robert, doing you an injustice, ... you ought to be angry, I think, _rather_ and _more_ with me than with another—I should have far less excuse it appears to me, for making such a mistake, than any other person in the world. I thought so yesterday when you were speaking, and now upon consideration I think so with an increasing certainty. Is it your opinion that the members of our family, ... those who live with us always, ... know us best? They know us on the side we offer to them ... a bare profile ... or the head turned round to the ear—yes!—they do not, except by the merest chance, look into our eyes. They know us in a conventional way ... as far from God’s way of knowing us, as from the world’s—mid-way, it is—and the truest and most cordial and tender affection will not hinder this from being so partial a knowledge. Love! I love those who at the present moment, ... who love me (and tenderly on both sides) ... but who are so far from _understanding_ me, that I never think of speaking myself into their ears ... of trying to speak myself. It is wonderful, it is among the great mysteries of life, to observe how people can love one another in the dark, blindly ... loving without knowing. And, as a matter of general observation, if I sought to have a man or woman revealed to me in his or her innermost nature, I would not go to the _family_ of the person in question—though I should learn there best, of course, about personal habits, and the social bearing of him or her. George Sand delights me in one of her late works, where she says that the souls of blood relations seldom _touch_ except at one or two points. Perfectly true, _that_ is, I think—perfectly.
Remember how you used to say that I did not know you ... which was true in a measure ... yet I felt I knew you, and I did actually know you, in another larger measure. And if _now_ you are not known to me altogether, it is my dulness which makes me unknowing.
But I know you—and I should be without excuse if ever I wronged you with a moment’s injustice. I do not think I ever could depreciate you for a moment,—_that_ would not be possible. There are other sins against you (_are_ they against you?) which bring their own punishment! You shall never be angry with me for those.
While I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon. As usual he said that there was no use in his coming—that you had taken his place, and so on. He was in a high good humour, though, and spirits, and I did not mind much what he was pleased to say. More I minded, that he means ‘to stay in London all the summer’ ... which I can’t be glad of, ... though I was glad at his not persisting in going to Scotland against his own wishes. But he might like to go somewhere else—it would be a pleasure, _that_, in which I should sympathize! The more shame for me!
Mr. Chorley pleases me more _than he ever pleased me before_! Only, as an analysis, he has done curiously with ‘Pippa.’ But it is good appreciation, good and righteous, and he has given me, altogether, a great, great deal of pleasure. As to the letter, I liked that too in its degree—and the advice is wise for the head, if foolish for the work. How _can_ wise people be so foolish?
I am going out to walk now with Henrietta, and shall put this letter into the post with my own hand. It is seven p.m. May God bless you. Do say how you are, dear, dearest!
I am your very own BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Evening. [Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]
Certainly you _do_ know me, my own Ba, beyond all other knowledge possible to relatives,—_that_ I know—in fact, I found myself speaking unwarily on a subject where speech is obliged to stop abruptly—the fault was mine for bringing up terms, remarks &c. quite inapplicable out of this house,—where all, as you understand, have seen me so long that they do not see differences in me,—increases or diminutions; I am twice as blind, most likely, to _them_, after the same fashion. Still, one is slow to concede an excuse to such blindness—hence the ‘hasty words’ I told you they charge me with uttering.
I apprehend no danger from _that_, to your feeling for me—it is your own speech my Ba, which I will take from you, and use—my own general short-comings, you will inevitably see and be sorry for—but there will be the more need of your love, which I shall go on asking for daily and nightly as if I never could have enough—which is the exact fact; and also, I shall grow fitter through the love to be what you would have me, so the end may be better than the beginning, let us hope.
Will you not do what you can with me who am your very own? as you are my own too, but for a different end—I am yours to operate on, as you are my only lady to dispose of what belongs to you. Dear, dearest Ba, it _is_ so; will ever be so!
Yes, that notice by Chorley is very kind and gratifying. I wanted—(_quite_ apart from the poor good to me or my books—but for Chorley’s own sake, I rather wanted)—some decided streak of red, or spot, or spark,—some life in the increasing grey of the ashes—this is true, _live_ lovingness of him—I will tell him so.
For Domett’s letter,—he means, by all that nonsense, that my health is more in his estimation than any works producible at its expense. All the calculation about so many lines a day, so many a month &c., _he_ knows to be absurd ... you _can’t_ write ‘so many lines to-day,’ and add next day’s complement, and so ‘grow to an end’—any more than you can paint a picture by thumb-breadths. The other paragraph about intelligibility laughs at itself all the time ... is not to be taken for serious.
Indeed I _did_ desire with a great desiring that you should go out, and now I thank you for all the good account of the walk, and victory over the wind: and how kind that sister is!—I shall never forget it.
My own head, since you _will_ be teazed with intelligence about it, was not very well yesterday, but is better decidedly this morning—_I_, too, will go and put this letter in the post and think of to-morrow ... for do not I keep to-morrow? I shall be with you unless another order comes ... may it be averted! And may you be happy always _with_ me, as I shall be through you ... nay, but half as happy, dearest Ba, my very own!
Your R.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday. [Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]
How I long, my sweetest Ba, to know whether any heavy price is to be paid for our three hours yesterday,—if your Aunt knew or has discovered since? I shall not murmur in any case, I hope ... they are too delicious, these three-hour visits—and if _I_ could pay for them by myself, Ba,—what would I not pay?
Will you let me write something, and forgive me? Because it is, I know, quite unnecessary to be written, and, beside, may almost seem an interference with your own delicacy,—teaching it its duty! However, I will venture to go on, with your hand before my two eyes. Then,—you remember what we were speaking of yesterday,—house-rents and styles of living? You will never overlook, through its very obviousness, that to consult my feelings on the only point in which they are sensitive to the world you must endeavour to live as simply and cheaply as possible, down to my own habitual simplicity and cheapness,—so that you shall come and live with me, in a sense, rather than I with Miss Campbell! You see, Ba, if you have more money than you want, you shall save it or spend it in pictures or parrots or what you please ... you avoid all offence to _me_ who never either saved money nor spent it—but the large house, I should be forced to stay in,—the carriage, to enter, I suppose. And you see too, Ba, that the one point on which I desire the world to be informed concerning our future life, will be that it is ordered _so_—I wish they could hear we lived in one room like George Sand in ‘that happy year—’
No, there I have put down an absurdity—because, I shall have to confess a weakness, at some time or other, which is hardly reconcilable to that method of being happy—why may I not tell you now, my adored Ba, to whom I tell everything as it rises to me? Now put the hand on my eyes again—now that I have kissed it. I shall begin by begging a separate room from yours—I could never brush my hair and wash my face, I do think, before my own father—I could not, I am sure, take off my coat before you _now_—why should I ever? The kitchen is an unknown horror to me,—I come to the dining-room for whatever repast there may be,—nor willingly stay too long there,—and on the day on which poor Countess Peppa taught me how maccaroni is made,—_then_ began a quiet revolution, (indeed a rapid one) against ‘tagliolini, ‘fettucce, ‘lasagne,’ etc., etc., etc.—typical, typical!
What foolishness ... spare me, my own Ba, and don’t answer one word,—do not even laugh,—for I _know_ the exceeding unnecessary foolishness of it!
Chorley has just sent me a note which I will send you because it is most graceful in its modesty—but you must not, if you please, return it to me in an envelope that ought only to hold your own writing,—and so make my heart beat at first, and my brows knit at last! (Toss it into ‘my room,’ at Pisa!!)
Thus it is to be made happy and unwise! Never mind—make me happier still by telling me you are well and have been out, and where, and when, and how—the footsteps of you, Ba, should be kissed if I could follow them.
Bless you, ever dearest, dearest, as yesterday, and always you bless me—I love you with all my heart and soul—_yes_ Ba!
Your own, very own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday Morning. [Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]
I did not go out yesterday, and was very glad not to have a command laid on me to go out, the wind blew so full of damp and dreariness. Then it was pleasanter to lie on the sofa and think of you, which I did, till at last I actually dreamed of you, falling asleep for that purpose. As to Flush, he came up-stairs with a good deal of shame in the bearing of his ears, and straight to me—no indeed! I would not speak to him—then he went up to Arabel ... ‘naughty Flush, go away’ ... and Wilson, ... who had whipped him before, ‘because it was right,’ she said ... in a fit of poetical justice, ... did not give him any consolation. So he lay down on the floor at my feet looking from under his eyebrows at me. I did not forgive him till nearly eight o’clock however. And I have not yet given him your cakes. Almost I am inclined to think now that he has not _a soul_. To behave so to you! It is nearly as bad as if I had thrown the coffee-cup! Wicked Flush!—Do you imagine that I scolded Wilson when she confessed to having whipped him? I did not. It was done with her hand, and not very hardly perhaps, though ‘he cried,’ she averred to me—and if people, like Flush, choose to behave like dogs savagely, they must take the consequences indeed, as dogs usually do! And _you_, so good and gentle to him! Anyone but _you_, would have said ‘hasty words’ at least. I think I shall have a muzzle for him, to make him harmless while he learns to know you. Would it not be a good plan?
But nobody heard yesterday of either your visit or of Flush’s misdoings ... so Wilson was discreet, I suppose, as she usually is, by the instinct of her vocation. Of all the persons who are _not_ in our confidence, she has the most certain knowledge of the truth. Dearest, we shall be able to have Saturday. There will be no danger in it.
Perhaps in the days to come we shall look back on these days as covetable things. Will _you_ do so, because you were loved in them as a beginning, or because you were _free_? (Am _I_ not as bad as Flush, to ask such questions?) _I_ shall look back on these days gratefully and gladly, because the good in them has overcome the evil, for the first time in days of mine. Yet my position is worse than yours on some accounts—_now_. Henrietta has had a letter from Capt. Surtees Cook who says in it, she says, ... ‘I hope that poor Ba will have courage to the end.’ There’s a generous sympathy! Tell me that there is none in the world!
Will you let me know how you are? Such a letter you wrote to me on Sunday! Ah!—to _be anything to you_ ... what is the colour of _ambition_ afterwards? When I look forwards I can see no work and no rest, but what is for you and in you. Even Duty seems to concentrate itself into one Debt—Dearest!
Yet it will be a little otherwise perhaps!—not that ever I shall love you otherwise or less—No.
You shall see some day at Pisa what I will not show you now. Does not Solomon say that ‘there is a time to read what is written.’ If he doesn’t, he _ought_.
Your very own BA.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday. [Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]
Dearest, what you say is unnecessary for you to say—it is in everything _so_ of course and obvious! You must have an eccentric idea of _me_ if you can suppose for a moment such things to be necessary to say. If they had been _unsaid_, it would have been precisely the same, believe me, in the event.
As to the way of living—now you shall arrange _that_ for yourself. You shall choose your own lodging, order your own dinner ... and if you choose to live on locusts and wild honey, I promise not to complain ... I shall not indeed be _inclined_ to complain ... having no manner of ambition about carriages and large houses, even if they were within our possibilities,—which they may not be, according to Mr. Surtees’s calculation or experience. The more simply we live, the better for _me_! So you shall arrange it for yourself, lest I should make a mistake! ... which, in _that_ question, is a just possible thing.
One extravagance I had intended to propose to you ... but it shall be exactly as you like, and I hesitate a little as I begin to speak of it. I have thought of taking Wilson with me, ... for a year, say, if we returned then—if not, we might send her home alone ... and by that time, I should be stronger perhaps and wiser ... rather less sublimely helpless and impotent than I am now. My sisters have urged me a good deal in this matter—but if you would rather it were otherwise, be honest and say so, and let me alter my thoughts at once. There is one consideration which I submit to yours, ... that I cannot leave this house with the necessary number of shoes and pocket handkerchiefs, without help from somebody. Now whoever helps me, will suffer through me. If I left her behind she would be turned into the street before sunset. Would it be right and just of me, to permit it? Consider! I must manage a sheltering ignorance for my poor sisters, at the last, ... and for all our sakes. And in order to _that_, again, I must have some one else in my confidence. Whom, again, I would unwillingly single out for an absolute _victim_.
Wilson is attached to me, I believe—and, in all the discussions about Italy, she has professed herself willing to ‘go anywhere in the world with me.’ Indeed I rather fancy that she was disappointed bitterly last year, and that it would not be a pure devotion. She is an expensive servant—she has sixteen pounds a year, ... but she has her utilities besides, and is very amiable and easily satisfied, and would not add to the expenses, or diminish from the economies, even in the matter of room—_I_ would manage _that_ for her. Then she would lighten your responsibilities ... as the Archbishop of Canterbury and company do Mr. Bevan’s. Well—you have only to consider your own wishes. I shall not care many straws, if you decide this way or that way. Let it be as may seem to you wisest.
I like Mr. Chorley’s note. I began to write so late that _I_, too, must send you a bare note to-night. May God bless you, ever dearest. I am tired ... so tired—yet I have not a long story to tell you of myself for the day’s chronicle I was just out for the few minutes my walking occupies, and came home and had coffee at half-past four; and scarcely was the cup empty, when Mrs. Jameson arrived—she stayed while you might count to a hundred—and your name was not once mentioned. And now, good-night. I hope the ‘testimonials’ may be ‘satisfactory,’ in this note which will not wait to be a letter! Dearest, say how your head is—do.
I am your Ba, always!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday. [Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]
I have just returned from Town and Mr. Kenyon’s, my own Ba. I called, according to compact, to point out the precise way he must go to reach us. He seemed to make sure I was going to Wimpole Street—‘Oh, no!’
So, losing Wimpole Street, I made haste home, and gain my letter,—my dear letter: yesterday night, too, the first letter arrived duly—you perfect in kindness!
My dearest—dearest,—you might go to Pisa without shoes,—or feet to wear them, for aught I know, since you may have wings, only folded away from me—but without your Wilson, or some one in her capacity, you ... no, I will not undertake to speak of _you_; then, _I_, should be simply, exactly, INSANE to move a step; I would rather propose, let us live on bread and water, and sail in the hold of a merchant-ship; THIS CANNOT be dispensed with! It is most fortunate, most providential, that Wilson is inclined to go—I am _very_ happy; for a new servant, with even the best dispositions, would never be able to anticipate your wants and wishes during the voyage, at the very beginning. Yet you write of this to me _so_, my Ba! I think I will, in policy, begin the anger at a good place. Yes, all the anger I am capable of descends on the head—(not in kisses, whatever you may fancy).
And so poor Flush suffered after all! Dogs that are dog-like would be at no such pains to tell you they would not see you with comfort approached by a stranger who might be—! A ‘muzzle’? oh, no,—but suppose you have him removed next time, and perhaps the next, till the whole occurrence is out of his mind as the fly bite of last week—because, if he sees me and begins his barking and valiant snapping, and gets more and heavier vengeance down-stairs, perhaps,—his transient suspicion of me will confirm itself into absolute dislike, hatred, whereas, after an interval, we can renew acquaintance on a better footing. Dogs have such memories! My sister told me last week she saw in a provincial newspaper an anecdote of one,—a miller’s dog, that was a good fellow in the main, but chose to take an especial dislike to one of his master’s customers, whom he invariably flew at and annoyed—so much so that the man declared he must carry his custom elsewhere unless the dog was parted with: this the miller was unwilling to do; so he hit on an expedient—by some contrivance, the dog was suffered to fall into a deep well, and bark himself hoarse there in vain—no help came—till the obnoxious individual arrived, let himself down and brought up the prisoner. From which time nothing could exceed the devotion of the dog to his rescuer; whom he always insisted henceforth on accompanying as far as his home, for one instance of it.
I wonder whether I have anywhere one of the sketches my father made of my bulldog’s face.
What ‘tired’ you, dearest? You are not _less_ well, I trust? Pray tell me,—and remember there are three days before our Saturday. I am very much better—the walking and riding of this morning did me good, too—and what profits it, if you are not better also? Love me in caring for yourself, which is _my_ truest self! And I will go on and try to love you more than I do—for what may happen?
Ever your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday Evening. [Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]
No letter for me to-night! not a word!—Perhaps the post is sinning again. If so, I shall hear to-morrow morning, if not ... may it be anything rather than that you are more unwell than usual! anything!
There is not much to say on my part. I had a letter from Miss Mitford this morning, and she encloses to me ... you will not guess what—a lyric of the ubiquitous Bennett—the ‘Mignonette.’ Are you not amused? That’s the way to ‘agitate’ for readers and praisers. She sees something in Bennett. He is to be ‘heard of in our literature.’ She shed tears over the ‘Mignonette,’ herself—
Your portrait of Victor Hugo, I like less and less—there is something ignoble in the face—and even the forehead is rather big than large. _He_ does not ‘look like a poet’ in any case—now does he?
Dearest, did I annoy you ... frighten you, ... about Wilson yesterday? Did _that_ prevent you from writing to me to-day—if really you did not write to me to-day? It yet was the merest _question_, ... I wished you to understand—the merest question for a yes or a no—and I shall not mind, _however_ you may answer, be certain. I have been thinking to-day that it would be possible enough to leave a direction which might supply everything, and so escape inflicting the injury apprehended—yes, and as for myself, I shall manage perfectly. Observe how I pinned your coat, miraculously pricking you at the same moment. I shall do for myself and by myself, as well as possible. And therefore, judge, speak your thoughts out to the purpose and without drawback. I shall always feel to thank you for speaking the _truth_, even where it goes against me. But _this_ will not go against me, _however_ you speak it, ... understand.
And as for what my sisters think, it is nothing to the purpose. Say your ‘no,’ and they never shall hear it. I will avoid the subject from henceforth, with them ... _that_ is all.
And take care of Mr. Kenyon to-morrow. I feel afraid of Mr. Kenyon. But take care of yourself most—look well that you never let me do, in the least or greatest matter, what would seem better undone hereafter. Not in the least, not in the greatest. For me, if I am to be thought of, remember that you _kill_ me, if you suffer me to injure you. That is for _me_.
See how I exhort people who do not write to me!... Ah no! It must be the post’s fault. You could not be very much vexed with me, I think, for a mere proposal about Wilson. And the rest of my letter was all made up of assent and agreement. You could not be vexed about Wilson. And you _shall_ not be ill, because I cannot bear to think of it—which, dearest, is a good reason and irrefragable.
The Hedleys dine here, and others. I hear the voices and the laughing. I wish I could, your voice, as near. May God bless you ... bless you—
Your own BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday. [Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]
Sweet, sweet, sweet Ba, look to be kissed to-morrow till it hurts you,—punished you ought to be for such a letter! When the ancients were in doubt about a man’s identity (the ancient fathers) they called him ‘aut Erasmus (or whoever it might be) aut—diabolus!’—no gradation, no mean between best and worst! Or do you think Flush bit me and inoculated me with super-cynical snappishness? Well, I _do_ think I should not have conducted myself as you consider highly possible,—even if you _had_ made, let me say at once, the _most_ preposterous of proposals, even that of going _without_ Wilson, or her substitute. I think and am sure I should, like a rational being, write all the faster to try and get you to reconsider the matter—convinced as I should be that your perfect good sense would, after a few minutes examination, see that I could no more take you away without such assistance than desire you to perform the passage of the Mont Cenis on foot. Do I not remember that you intended to be thus accompanied even when your sister was to be of the party? But the absolute necessity of what you fancy I may object to ... it is not _that_, I complain about—but of the strange notion, that whenever Fate shall decree that you say, or do, or think anything, from which I shall be forced to differ,—my proceedings will needs take this fashion and colour—I shall ‘sulk’ and _say_ nothing,—or perhaps turn aside grandly offended and meditative of noble vengeance! Oh, Ba, dearest, dearest beyond all words, come for _once_ and always _into_ the heart which is your own, and see how full it is of you, and if you say, _that_ does not prevent the head being weak and acting accordingly, I will begin exemplifying the very point I want to convince you of by at once writing and speaking and by every imaginable means making you know, that the heart _does_ teach the head better than such foolishness—ought to do it, and _does_ do it!
Do you believe me, Ba, my own? Or, what nonsense! Did you _wonder_ at my letter when it did come? Or _did_ it come? It was duly posted at Deptford—moreover the ‘Thursday’ at the top was written ‘Wednesday’—because all day long I was in that error—having been used to see you on Mondays, and to calculate my time by the number of days since I saw you—whence, knowing to my cost that two days had gone by since such an event, I thought what I wrote.
Now kiss me, my very own, for an end to every thing—your doubt and my impudent making the most of it,—for I do not doubt _you_, sweetest, truest, best love!
To-morrow brings me to you, Ba, I trust—I will be careful to-day, never fear your
own devoted R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday. [Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]
Why should you ask such a question of me yesterday, as to whether I loved you as much then as ever? Love you as much? Why should I not love you _more_? ... to give question for question. And it does seem to me, too, that _my_ question is more reasonable than yours. ‘Is it afternoon at six o’clock,’ you might have asked in the same breath with yours, and touched, _so_, as questionable a matter.
Tell me how the evening passed at Mr. Kenyon’s. I have seen nobody yet—not him, not Mrs. Jameson.
Seen nobody? Except all the Hedleys, who have just left my room. Do you know, the pomp and circumstance, the noise and fuss and publicity of this marriage of theirs happen just in time to make me satisfied with ‘quite the other principle’ as you said. The system they are carrying out is detestable to its own extreme. Fifty or sixty people are to breakfast at Fenton’s Hotel, ... with processions to and fro! ... which altogether, though the bride will bear it very well, (for she has been used to be a Belle _ex-officio_, and this business has been arranged by her and for her—otherwise they would have all been in Paris) is likely, I think, to half kill the bride’s mother. My poor aunt wonders how she will get through it. To have to part with her daughter in that crowd! So barbarous a system it is, this system of public marriages, under whatever light considered. Both my sisters are invited; and so was _I_! (in vain) and Henrietta officiates as a bridesmaid. Did I tell you that Arabella Hedley is a glorious convert to Puseyism, as might have been expected, and talked here like a theologian a few days since, and ‘considered the dissenters in a most dangerous position,’ much to the amusement of my brothers.
What am I writing of all this time? Dearest, how did you get home yesterday through the ambush at Mr. Kenyon’s? Tell me everything. And _know_ that I love you ‘as much,’ my own beloved!—you may know it.
When Flush came into the room and had spoken to me (in the Flush-language) and had examined your chair, he suddenly fell into a rapture and reminded me that the cakes you left, were on the table. So I explained thoroughly to him that _you_ had brought them for him, and that he ought to be properly ashamed therefore for his past wickedness, and make up his mind to love you and not bite you for the future—and then he was allowed to profit from your goodness to him. How _over_-good of you! It is an encouragement to throw coffee-cups, ... such over-goodness!
Nobody knew of your being here yesterday—at least, not that _I_ know! So Tuesday looks brightly, at a distance. At a distance! The day after to-morrow! Ah, it seems too near! Too near, in the sense of saying ‘_Too good_ ... to be true.’
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.
How you have mistaken my words, whatever they may have been, about the ‘change’ to be expected in my life! I have, most sincerely I tell you, no one habit nor manner to change or persevere in,—if you once accept the general constitution of me as accordant to yours in a sufficient degree,—my incompleteness with your completeness, dearest,—there is no further difficulty. I want to be a Poet—to read books which make wise in their various ways, to see just so much of nature and the ways of men as seems necessary—and having done this already in some degree, I can easily and cheerfully afford to go without any or all of it for the future, if called upon,—and so live on, and ‘use up,’ my past acquisitions such as they are. I will go to Pisa and learn,—or stay here and learn in another way—putting, as I always have done, my whole pride, if that is the proper name, in the being able to work with the least possible materials. There is my scheme of life _without_ you, _before_ you existed for me; prosecuted hitherto with every sort of weakness, but always kept in view and believed in. Now then, please to introduce Ba, and say what is the habit she changes? But do not try to say what divinest confirmation she brings to ‘whatever is good and holy and true’ in this scheme, because even She cannot say that! All the liberty and forbearance ... most graceful, most characteristic of you, sweet! But why should I play with you, at taking what I mean to give again?—or rather, what it would be a horror to have to keep—why make fantastic stipulations only to have the glory of not abiding by them? If I may speak of my own desires for a moment unconnected with your happiness,—of what I want _for myself_ purely—what I mean by marrying you,—it is, that I may be with you forever—I cannot have enough of you in any other relation: why then should I pretend to make reservations and say ‘Yes, you shall deprive me of yourself (of your sympathy, of your knowledge, and good wishes, and counsel) on such and such occasions? But I feel your entire goodness, dear angel of my life,—ever more I feel it, though all seems felt and recorded.
And now of your ‘chronicling’—of course Mr. Kenyon _knows_—and this is the beginning of his considerate, cautious kindness—he has determined to hurry nothing, interfere abruptly in no case, to make you _infer_ rather than pretend to instruct you—as you must,—for ‘if the visits of Captain Cook _have_ that appearance &c., must not those of R.B. &c., &c.,’ So, this is not from Chorley’s information, mind, but from his own spectacled _acumen_.
After this, it seems very natural to remark that the Havre packets leave now at nine instead of eight o’clock on Thursdays and Sundays—while the departures from Southampton are on Tuesdays and Fridays. My presentiment is that suddenly you will be removed to Devonshire or Sussex or—. In which case, our difficulties will multiply considerably—be prepared for such events!
And for to-morrow—only think of yourself, _lest_ you should forget my interests: _pray write to-night_, if but two or three words. If I am allowed to call, I will bring Mrs. Butler’s book in a cover, and, if I find a note from you, leave _that_, as an excuse for the knock. Will you contrive that a note shall be ready—in case of your Aunt’s presence &c. If it saves you from a danger, let me stay away—until the letters stop, I can bear absence _till_ the _two months end_—any such journey as I apprehend would be most annoying, deplorable indeed.
Would you not if the worst came,—_what_ would you do?
May God bless you, infinitely bless you, ever dearest dearest, prays ever your very own—
R.
Mrs. Procter wants me to go to her on Thursday—is there anything to get out of _that_ arrangement?—probably not—but write!
Do _re_consider, Ba,—had I better stay away to-morrow? You cannot misunderstand me,—I _only_ think of you—any man’s anger to me is Flushie’s barking, without the respectability of motive,—but, once the door shut on me, if he took to biting you! Think for us both! Is there any possibility of a suspicious sudden return _because_ of the facilities of the day? Or of the servant being desired to mention my visits—or to ‘deny you,’ as unwell &c.? Ah my soul revolts at the notion of a scene in your presence—my own tied tongue, and a system of patience I can well _resolve_ upon, but not be _sure_ of, as experience makes sure.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday. [Post-mark, August 4, 1846.]
Two precious letters to make amends for yesterday! and in return only just two or three words to say ... ‘yes, come.’ And I meant to have proposed to you something like what you suggest when you talk of the book and the note. If the ground is not clear at three, and Papa (above all) still in the house, you shall have a note, instead of admittance, ... and you will understand by the sign that it is wise for us not to meet. My hope and expectation are, however, that no obstacle will occur—that _he_ will be in the city, and _she_ at Fenton’s Hotel, engaged in some office of consolation beside her sister. I seriously exhorted her to remain there the rest of the day to wipe away the tears of the bride’s mother ... as an appendix to the breakfast:—ah, and seriously I thought she ought to stay, as well as seriously wishing it. And thus, altogether, we shall probably have open ground when it is desirable. If not, the note!—
For the rest, dearest, do not exaggerate to yourself my report of what passed on Saturday. It was an unpleasant impression, and that is all, ... and nothing, I believe, has been thought of it since. Once before, remember, your apparition made an unpleasant impression, which was perfectly transitory then as now. Now as then, do not suffer such things to vex you beyond their due import. There will be no coming back, no directions to servants, nothing of the sort. Only it would not do to deepen Saturday’s impression with to-morrow’s—we must be prudent a little.
And you see me, my prophet, sent to Sussex or Devonshire, in a flash of lightning? That is your presentiment, do you say? Well! Sussex is possible, Kent is not impossible. This house, ... _vox populi clamat_,—wants cleaning, painting, papering—the inhabitants thereof, too, cry aloud for fresh air. Nevertheless, summer after summer, there have been the same reasons for going, and nobody goes. We shall see.
So, till to-morrow! Dear, dearest! you are always best—to justify the _dearest_, I suppose! I remember your having said before some of this ... which, never could I forget, having once heard. But think how Alfred the king divided his days—and how Solomon the king would tell you of ‘a time’ for sitting with _me_. ‘Bid me ... not ... discourse’ however—we shall both know what is right presently—and I in the meanwhile perfectly do now that I could not consent to your shutting yourself up for my sake—no, indeed!
Shall I fail to you? Could I? Could it be needful for me to say ‘_I will not fail._’
Your own, I am.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Evening. [Post-mark, August 5, 1846.]
One word or two to-night and no more, let the paper spread itself as it may. Dearest, it was wise of you, perhaps, to go to-day. Wisdom was the first to wear sackcloth. My aunt, who had just had time to hear of your being in the house, found my door open, and you were noticed by a passing jest ... too passing to meet ears in authority—and I was made to put on my bonnet and go out in the carriage with _our_ department of the bridal party, who had come home first, in order to change their costume into something wearable for comfort ... into gowns which had not a devil, torturing the wearers with a morbid sense of flounces. So they came home for _that_, and we were vexed and frightened for _that_ reason—and I was taken to Kensington Gardens to leave some walkers there, and then to Fenton’s Hotel, to leave my aunt as comforter for the evening. Altogether, oh, how provoked I was! But it was wise perhaps. I will not say that it was not very wise indeed. Papa knows nothing of your having been here, and Saturday is not far off. Still, to think of two hours being cut off; and of the long journey from New Cross, just for the one hour! Shall I hear to-morrow _fully_, to make up for it, Robert? And tell me if you accept Mrs. Jameson’s invitation. And _your head_?
Flush thanks you! I asked him if he loved you even, and he wagged his tail. Generally when I ask him that question he won’t answer at all,—but you have overcome him with generosity ... as you do me!
I forgot to tell you—There is a letter from Mr. Horne which makes me vexed a little. He is coming to England, and says, that, if still I will not see him, he shall bring his guitar to play and sing for my sisters, leaving the door open that I may hear up-stairs. What a vexation! How shall I escape a checkmate now? He castles his king, and the next move undoes me. There’s a bishop though to be played first, for he wants an introduction to Whately, which I am to write for to Miss Mitford, if I _don’t know him myself_.
My consolation for to-day, is, that to-morrow is not Sunday. In the meanwhile, nothing is talked except of the glories of Fenton’s Hotel. The bride behaved with the most indisputable grace, and had words and smiles for everybody. The bridegroom appears to have been rather petrified (he was saying orisons to St. James, I dare say) and was condemned by the severer critics, for being able to produce no better speech at the breakfast, when his health was drunk with ever so much elaboration of eloquence, than ‘I thank you—I propose yours.’ For my