The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett

I was just on the point of answering your dear letter, in all the good spirits it might be expected to wake in me, when the sad news of poor Haydon’s death stopped all; much I feel it, for the light words of my own about his extravagance, as I had been told of it, but very much more on your account, who were so lately in communication with him. I earnestly hope,—I will trust—you have not been rudely apprised of this—I am happy to remember that you do not see the newspaper in the morning,—others will see it first; perhaps there may be no notice in the Chronicle at all, or on the other hand, a more circumstantial one than this in the Times which barely says—‘that B.R.H. died suddenly at his residence—yesterday morning. He was in his usual health on the previous evening, and it is believed that his decease was hastened by pecuniary embarrassment’—and he is called ‘the unfortunate gentleman’—which with the rest implies the very worst, I fear. If by any chance this should be the first intimation you receive of it ... do not think me stupid nor brutal,—for I thought again and again as to the right course to take ... whether it would not be best to be silent altogether and wait and see ... but in that case I should have surprised you more by my cold letter,—such an one as I could bring myself to write,—for how were it possible to speak of pictures and indifferent matters when you perhaps have been shocked, made ill by this news? If I have done wrong, forgive me, my own best, dearest Ba—I would give the world to know how you are. The storm, too, and lightning may have made you even more than ordinarily unfit to be startled and grieved. God knows and must help you! I am but your devoted—

How glad I am you told me you had never seen him. And perhaps he may be after all a mere acquaintance ... anything I will fancy that is likely to relieve you of pain! Dearest dearest!

E.B.B. to R.B.

Ever tenderest, kindest and most beloved, I thank you from the quick of my heart, where the thought of you lives constantly! In this world full of sadness, of which I have had my part ... full of sadness and bitterness and wrong ... full of most ghastly contrasts of life and death, strength and weakness side by side ... it is too much, to have you to hold by, as the river rushes on ... too much good, too much grace for such as I, ... as I feel always, and cannot cease to feel!

Oh yes—it has shocked me, this dreadful news of poor Mr. Haydon—it chilled the blood in my veins when I heard it from Alfred, who, seeing the Times at the Great Western Terminus, wrote out the bare extract and sent it to me by the post. He just thought that the Chronicle did not mention it, ... and that I had not seen Mr. Haydon ... he did not perhaps think how it would shock me.

For, this I cannot help thinking. Could anyone—could my own hand even ... have averted what has happened? My head and heart have ached to-day over the inactive hand! But, for the moment, it was out of my power, without an application where it would have been useless—and then, I never fancied this case to be more than a piece of a continuous case ... of a habit fixed. Two years ago he sent me boxes and pictures precisely so, and took them back again—poor, poor Haydon!—as he will not this time. And he said last week that Peel had sent him fifty pounds ... adding ... ‘I do not however want charity, but employment.’ Also, I have been told again and again (oh, never by you my beloved!) that to give money there, was to drop it into a hole of the ground.

But if to have dropped it so, dust to dust, would have saved a living man—what then?

Yet of the three notes I had from him last week, the first was written so lightly, that the second came to desire me not to attribute to him a ‘want of feeling.’ And who could think ... contemplate ... this calamity? May God have mercy on the strongest of us, for we are weak. Oh, that a man so high hearted and highly endowed ... a bold man, who has thrown down gauntlet after gauntlet in the face of the world—that such a man should go mad for a few paltry pounds! For he was mad if he killed himself! of that I am as sure as if I knew it. If he killed himself, he was mad first.

Some day, when I have the heart to look for it, you shall see his last note. I understand now that there are touches in it of a desperate pathos—but never could he have meditated self-destruction while writing that note. He said he should write six sets of lectures more ... six more volumes. He said he was painting a new background to a picture, which made him ‘feel as if his soul had wings.’ And then he hoped his brain would not turn. And he ‘gloried’ in the naval dangers of his son at sea. And he repeated an old phrase of his, which I had heard from him often before, and which now rings hollowly to the ears of my memory ... that he couldn’t and wouldn’t die. Strange and dreadful!

It is nearly two years since we had a correspondence of some few months—from which at last I receded, notwithstanding the individuality and spirit of his letters, and my admiration for a certain fervour and magnanimity of genius, no one could deny to him. His very faults partook of that nobleness. But for a year and a half or more perhaps, I scarcely have written or heard from him—until last week when he wrote to ask for a shelter for his boxes and pictures. If you had enquired of me the week before, I might have answered that I did not wish to renew the intercourse—yet who could help being shocked and saddened? Would it have availed, to have dropped something into that ‘hole in the ground?’ Oh, to imagine that! Yet a little would have been but as nothing!—and he did not ask even for a little—and I should have been ashamed to have offered but a little. Yet I cannot turn the thought away—that I did not offer.

Henry went to the house as I begged him. His son came to the door, and to a general enquiry ‘after the family,’ said that ‘Mr. Haydon was dead and that his family were quite as well as could be expected.’ That horrible banality is all I know more than you know.

Yesterday at Rogers’s, Mrs. Jameson led me to his picture of Napoleon at St. Helena. At the moment we looked at it, his hand was scarcely cold, perhaps. Surely it was not made of the commonest clay of men—that hand!

I pour out my thoughts to you, dearest dearest, as if it were right rather to think of doing myself that good and relief, than of you who have to read all. But you spoil me into an excess of liberty, by your tenderness. Best in the world! Oh—you help me to live—I am better and lighter since I have drawn near to you even on this paper—already I am better and lighter. And now I am going to dream of you ... to meet you on some mystical landing place ... in order to be quite well to-morrow. Oh—we are so selfish on this earth, that nothing grieves us very long, let it be ever so grievous, unless we are touched in ourselves ... in the apple of our eye ... in the quick of our heart ... in what you are, and where you are ... my own dearest beloved! So you need not be afraid for me! We all look to our own, as I to you; the thunderbolts may strike the tops of the cedars, and, except in the first start, none of us be moved. True it is of me—not of you perhaps—certainly you are better than I, in all things. Best in the world, you are!—no one is like you. Can you read what I have written? Do not love me less! Do you think that I cannot feel you love me, through all this distance? If you loved me less, I should know, without a word or a sign. Because I live by your loving me! I am your

R.B. to E.B.B.

But, dearest love—I have just come in later than I expected, I am happy to say ... for your note only just arrives too, they say ... and I should have been frightened more than I need say. All blessing on you, Ba. I have seen no paper.—but Countess Hahn-Hahn said across Carlyle’s table that poor H. had attempted to shoot himself and then chosen another method—too successful. Horrible indeed—All to say now is, I shall be with you to-morrow,—my very own, dearest of all dear created things—my life and pride and joy—(Bless you).

R.B. to E.B.B.

I drew the table to the fire before I wrote this. Here is cool weather, grateful to those overcome by last week’s heat, I suppose!—much as one conceives of a day’s starvation being grateful to people who were overfeasted some time back. But the coolness (that is, piercing cold as the north wind can make) sets me to ponder on what you said yesterday,—of considering summer as beginning next Wednesday, or there about, and ending by consequence with September. Our time is ‘at the Summer’s end’: and it does strike me that there may be but too many interpositions beside that of ‘my own will’ ... far too many. If those equinoctial winds disturb the sea, the cold weather adds to the difficulties of the land-journey ... then the will may interpose or stand aloof ... I cannot take you and kill you ... really, inevitably kill you! As it is ... or rather, as it might be, I should feel during a transit under the most favourable circumstances possible, somewhat as the performer of that trick by which a full glass of water resting in the open hand is made to describe a circle from above to below and back without spilling a drop—through some good-natured suspension, in the operator’s interest, of just a fundamental law of the universe, no more! Therefore if any September weather shall happen in September ... let us understand and wait ... another year! and another, and another.

Now, have I ever, with all those askings, asked you once too often, that is, unnecessarily—‘if this should be,’—or ‘when this should be?’ What is my ‘will’ to do with it? Can I keep the winds away, alas? My own will has all along been annihilated before you,—with respect to you—I should never be able to say ‘she shall dine on fish, or fruit,’ ‘She shall wear silk gloves or thread gloves’—even to exercise in fancy that much ‘will over you’ is revolting—I will this, never to be ‘over you’ if I could!

So, you decide here as elsewhere—but do decide, Ba, my own only Ba—do think, to decide. I can know nothing here as to what is gained or lost by delay or anticipation—I only refer to the few obvious points of the advantage of our ‘flight not being in the winter’—and the consideration that the difficulty in another quarter will never be less nor more,—therefore is out of the question.

I will tell you something I meant to speak of yesterday. Mrs. Jameson said Mr. Kenyon had assured her, with the kindest intentions, that it was quite vain to make those offers of company to Pisa or elsewhere, for your Father would never give his consent, and the very rationality of the plan, and probability of the utmost benefit following the adoption of it, would be the harder to forego the more they were entertained—whereupon, ‘having the passions of his kind he spoke some certain things’—bitter and unavoidable. Then Mrs. J. spoke too, as you may imagine; apparently from better knowledge than even I possess. Now I repeat this to your common-sense, my Ba—it is not hard to see that you must be silent and suffering, where no other can or will be either—so that if a verdict needs must be pronounced on our conduct, it will be ‘the world’s’ and not an individual’s—and for once a fair one. Mrs. Jameson’s very words were ... (writing from what has been, observe—what is irrevocably past, and not what may be)—‘I feel unhappy when in her presence ... impelled to do her some service, and impeded. Can nothing be done to rescue her from this? ought it to continue?’ So speaks—not your lover!—who, as he told you, did long to answer ‘someone with attempt, at least!’ But it was best, for Mrs. Jameson would be blamed afterward, as Mr. K. might be abused, as ourselves will be vituperated, as my family must be calumniated ... by whom.

Do you feel me kiss your feet while I write this? I think you must, Ba! There is surely,—I trust, surely no impatience here, in this as in the other letter—if there is, I will endeavour to repress it ... but it will be difficult—for I love you, and am not a stock nor a stone.

Well, kissing the feet answers everything, declares everything—and I kiss yours, my own Ba.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Arabel insists on my going out in the carriage, but I will not, I say, before I have written my letter—and while we talk, the rain comes down like a guardian angel, and I cannot go out before I have written my letter, as is apparent to all. Dearest, you did me such good yesterday with seeing you and hearing you, that I slept better and am better altogether, and after a little change into the air, shall be well—and how is your head? Now do not forget to tell me particularly. Say too whether you found your friend and had the right quantity of talk and got home without being the worse for him ... or me!

I have not had the heart to look at the newspapers, but hear that Sir Robert Peel has provided liberally for the present necessities of the poor Haydons. And do you know, the more I think the more I am inclined to conclude that the money-distress was merely an additional irritation, and that the despair leading to the revolt against life, had its root in disappointed ambition. The world did not recognize his genius, and he punished the world by withdrawing the light. If he had not that thought in him, I am wrong. The cartoon business, and his being refused employment in the Houses of Parliament ... that was bitter: and then came his opposition with Tom Thumb and the dwarfs triumph ... he talked bitterly of that in a letter to me of last week. He was a man, you see, who carried his whole being and sensibility on the outside of him; nay, worse than so, since in the thoughts and opinions of the world. All the audacity and bravery and self-exultation which drew on him so much ridicule were an agony in disguise—he could not live without reputation, and he wrestled for it, struggled for it, kicked for it, forgetting grace of attitude in the pang. When all was vain, he went mad and died. Poor Haydon! He measures things differently now! and let us now be right and just in our admeasurement of what he was—for, with all his weaknesses, he was not certainly far from being a great man.

It is hope and help, to be able to look away from all such thoughts, to you, dearest beloved, who do not partake of the faults and feeblenesses of these lower geniuses. There is hope and help for the world in you—and if for the world, why for me indeed much more. You do not know ... ah, you do not know—how I look up to you and trust perfectly in you. You are above all these clouds—your element is otherwise—men are not your taskmasters that you should turn to them for recompense. ‘Shall I always think the same of you,’ you asked yesterday. But I never think the same of you; because day by day you look greater and feel dearer. Only there is a deep gulph of another question, close beside that, which suggests itself, and makes me shudder to look down.

And now, the rain is over, and I shall dine briefly, and go out in the carriage.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late and I am very tired; having ... while you were sitting by the fire ... been, for my part, driving to Highgate ... now think of that! Also it has done me good, I think, and I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired certainly.

Your letter shall be answered to-morrow—and here is a green answer to your leaves![3]—what leaves? whence and how? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the hedge, snatching at it from the carriage-window. The roses were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of reach; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they do not look for snow-storms in September. No! it was not that, they said. I am belying what they said.

I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever there, I wonder?

Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘impatient,’ inconsiderate—and as for selfishness, I have been uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish. I am not likely to mistake ... to wrench the wrong way ... any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word, when I said that you should decide everything. Could I hold out for November, or October, or for September even, if you choose against? Indeed I could not. We—you will think—I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not—I am too entirely yours.

And so good-night—dearest beloved! Because you have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and earth and ocean to become impassable? Ah well! we shall see! But you shall not see that I deceive you—

Not a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could have proved to you if you had been with me! Yet it is a detestable climate, this English climate, let us all confess. Say how your head is.

[3] [A sprig from rose-tree enclosed. R.B.’s previous letter contained some leaves.]

R.B. to E.B.B.

Your dear gentle laugh, as I seem to hear it, makes all well again for the moment undoubtedly. I cannot help trusting you implicitly ... so whenever I seem able to reason a little, and set you reasoning for me, ought I not to try,—and then give up, and sink my head over you ... dearest! In fact, I was a little frightened by what I heard and saw ... for you, if you please, began by saying ‘it was too cold to go out’—and you were paler, I thought. The news of Highgate and the green leaves are re-assuring indeed—but my brown leaves might be sent to you by myriads for all that, for all the light laugh,—all roses fast going, lilies going ... autumnal hollyhocks in full blow ... and now to count three months over before summer is to end! These rains may do something, or hinder somewhat—and certainly our fire was left alone early yesterday morning. Well, I have not been presumptuous except ... ah, the exception!

How could I presume, for one thing, to hope for last evening’s letter ... a pure piece of kindness in you, Ba! And all your kindness is pure, entire, pearl-like for roundness and completeness ... there is no one rough side as when a crystal is broken off and given: do you think it no good augury of our after life in what must be called, I suppose, another relation,—that this has been so perfect ... to me ... this last year, let me only say? In this relation there are as many ‘écueils’ as in the other,—as many, though of a different nature,—lovers quarrel on as various grounds as the wedded—and though with the hue and softness of love the most energetic words and deeds may change their character; yet one might write savage sentences in Chinese celestial-blue ink, which after a powdering with gold-dust should look prettier than the truest blessing in ordinary black. But you have been perfect to me hitherto—perfect! And of course only to you is the praise ... for I have to be entirely confided in by you, seeing that you cannot keep an eye on me after I leave your room ... whereas,—not I, but a gross, stupid fool who conceived of no liberty but that of the body, nor that the soul may be far more unfaithful—such an one might exult in the notion of the closed door and the excluded world of rivals.

Bless you, darling—Monday is not very far off now! And I am to hear again. I am much better,—my mother much better too. I saw my French friend and talked and heard him talk. Yesterday, the whole day, (after the fire went out) was given to a cousin of mine, a girl, just married, and here from Paris with her husband—these two had to be amused somehow. Ever your very own—

E.B.B. to R.B.

I said I would answer your letter to-day, my beloved, but how shall I say more than I have said and you know? Do you not know, you who will not will ‘over’ me, that I cannot will against you, and that if you set yourself seriously to take September for October, and August for September, it is all at an end with me and the calendar? Still, seriously ... there is time for deciding, is there not? ... even if I grant to you, which I do at once, that the road does not grow smoother for us by prolonged delays. The single advantage perhaps of delay is, that in the summer I get stronger every week and fitter to travel—and then, it never was thought of before (that I have heard) to precede September so. Last year, was I not ordered to leave England in October, and permitted to leave it in November? Yet I agree, November and perhaps October might be late—might be running a risk through lingering ... in our case; and you will believe me when I say I should be loth to run the risk of being forced to the further delay of a year—the position being scarcely tenable. Now for September, it generally passes for a hot month—it ripens the peaches—it is the figtime in Italy. Well—nobody decides for September nevertheless. The end of August is nearer—and at any rate we can consider, and observe the signs of the heavens and earth in the meanwhile—there is so much to think of first; and the end, remember, is only too frightfully easy. Also you shall not have it on your conscience to have killed me, let ever so much snow fall in September. If the sea should be frozen over, almost we might go by the land—might we not? and apart from fabulous ports, there are the rivers—the Seine, the Saône, the Rhone—which might be cheaper than the sea and the steamers; and would, I almost should fancy. These are things among the multitude, to think of, and you shall think of them, dearest, in your wisdom. Oh—there is time—full time.

No—there is not, in a sense. I wanted to write so much more, so much—and I went out to walk first, and, on returning, met Mr. Kenyon, who came up-stairs with me.

May God bless you. I shall see you on Monday. I am better for Highgate—I walked longer to-day than usual. How strong you make me, you who make me happy!

R.B. to E.B.B.

My last letter will have answered this of yours, my dearest,—I agree in all you say; and sooner or later comes to the same thing, if to any possible increase of difficulty is brought a proportionate increase of strength to undergo it—as let us hope will be the case! So you see you have to ‘understand’ and understand me,—I keep your faculty in constant exercise, now with seeming to wish for postponement, and now, for anticipation! And all the time do I really ‘grow greater’ in your eyes? I might grow less woefully,—‘for reasons—for reasons’—

The sea will not be frozen, beside ... which makes me think to tell you that Carlyle is wanting to visit only one foreign country—Iceland. The true cradle of the Northmen and their virtues ... all that is worth a Northman’s caring to see is there, he thinks, and nowise in Italy. Perhaps! Indeed, so I reason and say—Did I not once turn on myself and speak against the Southern spirit, and even Dante, just because of that conviction?—(or imperfect conviction, whence the uneasy exaggeration). Carlyle thinks modern Italy’s abasement a direct judgment from God. ‘Here is a nation in whose breast arise men who could doubt, examine the new problems of the reformation &c.—trim the balance at intervals, and throw overboard the accumulation of falsehood—all other nations around, less favoured, are doing it laboriously for themselves ... now is the time for the acumen of the Bembos, the Bentivoglios and so forth ... and these and their like, one and all, turn round, decline the trouble, say ‘these things may be true, or they may not, meantime let us go on verse-making, painting, music-scoring’—to which all the nation accedes as if relieved of a trouble—upon which God bids the Germans go in and possess them; pluck their fruits and feel their sun after their own hard work.’ Carlyle said the sense of this, between two huge pipe-whiffs, the other afternoon.

‘Pluck their fruits’—some four years ago I planted ... or held straight while my mother planted, a fig-tree,—for love of Italy! This year it bears its first fruit ... a single one! what does that bode?

Since I wrote the last paragraph, the wind took my thoughts away, as it always does, and I saw you again as I used to see, before I knew you, so very substanceless, faint, unreal—when I was struck by the reality again,—by this paper,—by to-morrow’s visit I shall pay ... it was as if someone had said ‘but that star is your own.’

E.B.B. to R.B.

The gods and men call you by your name, but I never do—never dare. In case of invocation, tell me how you should be called by such as I? not to be always the ‘inexpressive He’ which I make of you. In case of courage for invocation!—

Dearest ... (which is a name too) read on the paper inside what I have been studying about Salerno since we parted yesterday. Forsyth is too severe in his deductions, perhaps, from the apothecaries, but your Naples book will not help me to contradict him, saying neither the one thing nor the other. The word we could not read in the letter yesterday, was La Cava—and La Cava is a town on the way between Naples and Salerno, which Mrs. Stark describes as ‘a large town with porticoes on each side of the High Street, like those at Bologna.’ To which the letter adds, remember ‘enchantingly beautiful, very good air and no English. Then there is Vietri, mentioned by Forsyth, between La Cava and Salerno, and on the bay. It is as well to think of all three. Were you ever at either? Amalfi itself appears to be very habitable. Oh—and your Naples book says of Salerno, that it is illuminated by fireflies, and that the chanting of frogs covers the noises of the city. You will like the frogs, if you don’t the apothecaries, and I shall like the fireflies if I don’t the frogs—but I do like frogs, you know, and it was quite a mistake of yours when you once thought otherwise.

Now I am going out in the carriage, to call on Mr. Kenyon, and perhaps to see Mr. Boyd. Your flowers are more beautiful than they were yesterday, if possible: and the fresh coolness helps them to live, so, that I hope you may see some of them on Saturday when you come. On Saturday! What a time to wait! if not for them, yet for me. Of the two, it is easier for them, certainly. They only miss a little dew and air.

I shall write again to-night,—but I cannot be more then than now, nor less ever than now

Here is a coincidence. Hardly had you left me, when, passing near the table at the end of the room, I saw a parcel there. Remember your question about the ‘Year of the World’ Precisely that! With a note, the counterpart of yours—desiring an opinion!

May God bless you, dear, dear!—Did I ever think I should live to thank God that I did not die five years ago?—Not that I quite, quite dare to do it yet. I must be sure first of something.

Which is not your love, my beloved—it is a something still dearer and of more consequence.

Salerno.

‘Though placed between the beauties of sea and land, of cultivated and rude nature, the city is so unhealthy that its richer inhabitants remove to Vietri during the hot months. In proof of its bad air, I remark here a number of apothecaries!’

Forsyth.

‘Its white houses curving round the haven at the water’s brink, the mountains crowding close behind the city, the ruins of its Gothic castle on the olive-covered hill above, together mirrored on the waveless water, itself alternate shine and shadow—’tis a noble sight.

‘The view from Salerno is one of the loveliest pictures in Italy. A clear-complexioned, open-eyed, and bright-faced city is modern Salerno,—and its streets and piazza were all astir.’

Letters from Naples.

‘This town, the approach to which is enchanting, boasts a tolerably good inn!!’

Mrs. Starke.

R.B. to E.B.B.

I have looked in the map for ‘L——,’ the place praised in the letter, and conclude it must be either Ceva, (La Ceva, between Nocera and Salerno, about four miles from the latter, and on the mountain-side, I suppose ... see a map, my Ba!)—or else Lucera, (which looks very like the word ... and which lies at about sixty miles to the N.E. of Naples, in a straight line over the mountains and roadless country, but perhaps twice as far by the mainway through Avellino, Ariano, Bovino, and Savia—exactly 120 Italian miles now that I count the posts). So that there would be somewhat of a formidable journey to undertake after the sea voyage. I daresay at Ceva there is abundance of quietness, as the few who visit Salerno do not go four miles inland,—can you enquire into this?

How inexpressibly charming it is to me to have a pretext for writing thus ... about such approaches to the real event—these business-like words, and names of places! If at the end you should bring yourself to say ‘But you never seriously believed this would take place’—what should I answer, I wonder?

Let me think on what is real, indisputable, however ... the improvement in the health as I read it on the dear, dear cheeks yesterday. This morning is favourable again ... you will go out, will you not?

Mr. Kenyon sends me one of his kindest letters to ask me to dine with him next week—on Wednesday. I feel his kindness, just as you feel in the other case, and in its lesser degree, I feel it,—and then I know,—dare think I know whether he will be so sorry in the end,—loving you as he does. I will send his letter that you may understand here as elsewhere.

I think my head is dizzy with reading the debates this morning—Peel’s speech and farewell. How exquisitely absurd, it just strikes me, would be any measure after Miss Martineau’s own heart, which should introduce women to Parliament as we understand its functions at present—how essentially retrograde a measure! Parliament seems no place for originating, creative minds—but for second-rate minds influenced by and bent on working out the results of these—and the most efficient qualities for such a purpose are confessedly found oftener with men than with women—physical power having a great deal to do with it beside. So why shuffle the heaps together which, however arbitrarily divided at first, happen luckily to lie pretty much as one would desire,—here the great flint stones, here the pebbles—and diamonds too. The men of genius knew all this, said more than all this, in their way and proper place on the outside, where Miss M. is still saying something of the kind—to be taken up in its time by some other Mr. Cobden and talked about, and beleaguered. But such people cannot or will not see where their office begins and advantageously ends; and that there is such a thing as influencing the influencers, playing the Bentham to the Cobden, the Barry to a Commission for Public Works, the Lough to the three or four industrious men with square paper caps who get rules and plummets and dot the blocks of marble all over as his drawings indicate. So you and I will go to Salerno or L—— (not to the L—akes, Heaven forefend!) and if we ‘let sail winged words, freighted with truth from the throne of God’—we may be sure——

Ah, presumption all of it! Then, you shall fill the words with their freight, and I will look on and love you,—is that too much? Yes—for any other—No—for one you [know] is yours—

For the quick departing yesterday our day was not spoken of ... it is Saturday, is it not?

E.B.B. to R.B.

Thank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter. He loves you, admires you, trusts you. When what is done cannot be undone, then he will forgive you besides—that is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself to see all manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked him to look. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look on the encouragement of ever so many more kind notes, pleasant as they are to read, and worthy to trust to, under certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon—but how good he is! And I love him more (shall it be under-love?) because of his right perception and understanding of you—no one among men sets you higher than he does as a man and as a poet—even if he misses the subtle sense, sometimes.

So you dine with him—don’t you? And I shall have you on Wednesday instead of Thursday! yes, certainly. And on Saturday, of course, next time.

In the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and as he was not at home, left a card for a footstep. Then Arabel and Flush and I proceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood, and I was so nervous ... so anxious for an excuse for turning back ... that ... can you guess what Arabel said to me? ‘Oh Ba’; she said, ‘such a coward as you are, never will be ... married, while the world lasts.’ Which made me laugh if it did not make me persevere—for you see by it what her notion is of an heroic deed! So, there, I stood at last, at the door of poor Mr. Boyd’s dark little room, and saw him sitting ... as if he had not moved these seven years—these seven heavy, changeful years. Seeing him, my heart was too full to speak at first, but I stooped and kissed his poor bent-down forehead, which he never lifts up, his chin being quite buried in his breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and Cyprus wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a god, to take a little of the Cyprus,—there was no help for me, nor alternative: so I took as little as I could, while he went on proving to me that the Adamic fall and corruption of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great theologian) were never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified as in the literary controversy about Ossian; every man of the Highland Society having a lost soul in him; and Walter Scott ... oh, the woman who poisoned all her children the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott, ... so we need not talk of him any more. ‘Arabel!—how much has she taken of that wine? not half a glass.’ ‘But Mr. Boyd, you would not have me be obliged to carry her home.’

That visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde Park, and drove close to the Serpentine, and then returned. Flush would not keep his head out of the window (his favourite pleasure) all the way, because several drops of rain trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his ears:—his nose so near, too!

Right you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau, though your reasons are too gracious to be right ... except indeed as to the physical inaptitude, which is an obvious truth. Another truth (to my mind) is, that women, as they are (whatever they may be) have not mental strength any more than they have bodily; have not instruction, capacity, wholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a class, have defects, is as false I think, as to deny that women have wrongs.

Then you are right again in affirming that the creators have no business there, with the practical men—you should not be there for instance. And I (if I am to be thought of) would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni (Dearest—there is a manufactory of maccaroni and writing-paper at Amalfi close by—observe that combination! maccaroni and writing-paper!) I would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni with you as you, than to sit with diamonds in my ears, under the shelter of the woolsack, you being a law-lord and parliamentary maker of speeches! By the way, I couldn’t have diamonds in my ears: they never were bored for it ... as I never was born for it. A physical inaptitude, here too!

Shall I say what you tell me ... ‘You never seriously believed’ ... shall I? I will, if you like. But it is not Ceva, if you like—it is Cava ... La Cava ... in my map, and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the place is the same—four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘enchantingly beautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this enchanting place which has no English in it, with porticoes like Bologna, and too little known to be spelt correctly by the most accomplished geographers.

Ah—your head is ‘dizzy,’ my beloved! Tell me how it is now. And tell me how your mother is. I think of you—love you. I, who am discontented with myself, ... self-condemned as unworthy of you, in all else ... am yet satisfied with the love I have for you—it seems worthy of you, as far as an abstract affection can go, without taking note of the personality loving.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Dearest—dearest, you did once, one time only, call me by my name—Robert; and though it was to bid ‘R. not talk extravagances’ (your very words) still the name so spoken became what it never had been before to me. I never am called by any pet-name, nor abbreviation, here at home or elsewhere.... Oh, best let it alone ... it is one of my incommunicable advantages to have a Ba of my own, and call her so—indeed, yes, my Ba! I write ‘dearest,’ and ‘most dearest,’ but it all ends in—‘Ba,’ and the ‘my’ is its framework,—its surrounding arm—Ba—my own Ba! ‘Robert’ is in Saxon, (ni fallor), ‘famous in counsel,’ so let him give a proof of his quality in counselling you to hold your good, happy inspiration about La Cava (my French map-maker must have had Ceva in Piedmont in his head) for at such a place, so situate, we renounce not one sight at Salerno, nor Amalfi, nor Sorrento ... four miles ... the distance between your house and Highgate, perhaps! Cava,—the hollow of a hill; and such hills and such hollows are in that land! Oh, let it be La Cava—or Seven Dials, with you!

I passed through Seven Dials this morning—and afterward, by your house,—with a heart full of thoughts,—not fuller than usual, but they were more stirring and alive, near their source. I called at Mrs. Procter’s door (proceeding from Forster’s) and then on Mrs. Jameson whom I found and talked with pleasantly till a visitor came. I do extremely appreciate her, delight in her ... to avoid saying ‘love’—I was never just to her before, far from it. I saw her niece, a quiet earnest-looking little girl. But did it not please me to call in at Moxon’s and hear that (amongst other literary news dexterously enquired after) Miss Barrett’s poems were selling very well and would ere long be out of print? And, after that pleasure, came the other of finding dear, generous, noble Carlyle had sent his new edition of ‘Cromwell,’ three great volumes, with his brave energetic assurance of ‘regards’ and ‘many’ of them, in black manly writing on the first page. So may he continue to like me till he knows you; when it will be ‘mine’ instead of me, that he shall love—‘love’? I let the whole world love you—if they can overtake my love. As I read on, about the visit to Mr. Boyd, I thought, ‘I trust she will kiss his forehead,’—and I kiss yours—thus—for that, too,—in gratitude for that. You dear, good, blessing of a Ba, how I kiss you!—

I am quite well to-day, and my mother is quite well—The good account of the visit is enough to make me happy on a Wednesday—leading to a Saturday! Then my two letters!

I did not see Moxon—only the brother—who tells odd stories drily; one made me laugh to-day. Poor Mr. Reade, Landor’s love, sent a book to Campbell the Poet, and then called on him ... to discover him in the very act of wiping a razor on a leaf torn out of the book, laid commodiously by his toilet-table for the express purpose.

E.B.B. to R.B.

No, No! indeed I never did. If you heard me say ‘Robert,’ it was on a stair-landing in the House of Dreams—never anywhere else! Why how could you fancy such a thing? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience which spoke instead of me, saying ‘Robert, don’t be extravagant.’ Yes—just the speech that is, for a ‘good uneasy,’ discerning Conscience—and you took it for my speech! ‘Don’t be extravagant’ I may certainly have said. Both I and the Conscience might have said so obvious a thing.

Ah—and now I have got the name, shall I have courage to say it? tell me, best councillor! I like it better than any other name, though I never spoke it with my own lips—I never called any one by such a name ... except once when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have, called Robert—but to me he is an ‘uncle Hedley’ and no more. So it is a white name to take into life. Isn’t this an Hebraic expression of a preferring affection ... ‘I have called thee by thy name.’? And therefore, because you are the best, only dearest!——Robert.

You passed by and I never knew! How foolish—but really it quite strikes me as something wonderful, that I should not have known. I knew however of your being in London, because ... (don’t expect supernatural evidence) Mrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five, and brought her niece whom I liked just for the reasons you give; and herself was feeling and affectionate as ever:—it is well that you should give me leave to love her a little. Once she touched upon Italy ... and I admitted that I thought of it, and thought it probable as an event ... on which she pressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’ ‘Perhaps on my own courage,’ I said. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed ‘now I see clearly.’

Which made me smile ... the idea of her seeing clearly, but earnestly and cordially she desired me to remember that to be useful to me in any manner, would give her pleasure. Such kindness! The sense of it has sunk into my heart. You cannot praise her too much for me. She was so kind, that when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street on Friday, I could not help agreeing at once: and I am to have the sofa and no company—that’s a promise. She asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to bring Mr. Kenyon for an escort—but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s going, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to fix a later hour, because....

Listen to the because. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my cousin, her adopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow evening, and stay in this house ... oh, I cannot tell you how long: for a whole week as a beginning, certainly. I have been sighing and moaning so about it that Arabel calls it quite a scandal—but when one can’t be glad, why should it be so undutiful to appear sad? If she had but stayed in Paris six months longer! Well!—and to-morrow morning Miss Mitford comes to spend the day like the kind dear friend she is; and I, not the least in the world glad to see her! Why have you turned my heart into such hard porphyry? Once, when it was plain clay, every finger (of these womanly fingers) left a mark on it—and now, ... you see! Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to her chiefly (as I know in myself) because she sees you as you are in part, and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it ... however she may, and must consistently, expect us to torment one another, according to the way of the ‘artistic temperament,’ evermore, and ever more and more. But for the rest, the others who do not know you and value you ... I hate to see them ... and there’s the truth! There is something too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness enforced on occasion! ... which is painful and hateful. Detestable it all is.

And I like La Cava too! Think of a hollow in the mountain ... something like a cave, do you think? At least it must be a hollow in the mountains. I wrote to my friend this morning to ask if the place is considered warm, and if she knew any more of it. The ‘porticoes as at Bologna’ look attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by; and Baba may escape the forty thieves of English in the Cave, with a good watchword like Sesame—now that’s half my nonsense and half yours, I beg you to observe. I won’t be at the charge of it all.

I was out to-day—walked up, walked down, in my old fashion—only I do improve in walking, I think, and gain strength.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Dear, you might as well imagine you had never given me any other of the gifts, as that you did not call me, as I tell you. You spoke quickly, interrupting me, and, for the name, ‘I can hear it, ’twixt my spirit and the earth-noise intervene’; do you think I forget one gift in another, even a greater? I should still taste the first freshness of the vinegar, (or whatever was the charm of it)—though Cleopatra had gone on dissolving pearl after pearl in it. I love you for these gifts to me now—hereafter, it seems almost as if I must love you even better, should you choose to continue them to me in spite of complete knowledge: I feel this as often as I think of it, which is not seldom.

Do you know, Mrs. Jameson asked me to go and see her on Friday morning—would you like me to go? What I like ... do not fancy,—because your own pleasure is to be consulted. Should you fear the eyes, which can, on occasion, wear spectacles? If not ... and if our Saturday will not be interfered with ... and if you can tell me the hour ‘later than twelve’ you mean to appoint, ... so that my call may be neither too early nor too late ... why, then, Ba, dearest, dearest—

La Cava—is surely our cave, Ba—early in October will be vintage-time,—no fire flies. There will be the advantage in the vicinity of Naples, that through the Rothschilds’ House there we can, I believe, receive and dispatch letters without any charge, which otherwise would be an expensive business in Italy. The economy of the Post Office there is astounding. A stranger goes to a window and asks for ‘A’s’ or ‘Z’s’ letters ... not even professing himself to be ‘A,’ or ‘Z’—whereupon the official hands over sundry dozens of letters, without a word of enquiry, out of which the said stranger picks what pleases him, and paying for his selections, goes away and there an end. At Venice, I remember, they offered me, with other letters, about ten or fifteen for the Marquis of Hastings who was not arrived yet—I had only to say ‘I am sent for them’.... At Rome a lady lamented to me the sad state of things ‘A letter might contain Heaven only knew what and lie at the office and’—‘I might go and get it,’ I said—‘You? Nay, my husband might!’ she answered as one mightily wronged.

But of your dear self now—the going out will soon and effectually cure the nervousness, we may be sure. I am most happy, love, to hear of the walking and increased strength. So you used to like riding on a donkey? Then you shall have a mule, un bel mulo, and I will be your muleteer, walk by your side—and you will think the moment you see him of the wicked shoeing of cats with walnut-shells, for they make a mule’s shoes turn up, for all the world like large shells—those on his forefeet at least. Will the time really come then? Meanwhile, your visitors ... let us hope they will go sight-seeing or call-making, do anything but keep the house on our days.... The three hours seem as a minute ... if they are to be curtailed,—oh, no, no, I hope. Tell me all you can, dearest ... and let me tell you all I can, little as it is, in kissing you, my best and dearest Ba, as now kisses your very own.

E.B.B. to R.B.

But, ever dearest, I do so fear that I shall not be able to get to Mrs. Jameson’s to-morrow at all! not at twelve, I fear, I fear. Our visitors are to arrive late to-night, too late for me to see them: and for me to go away at twelve in the morning, just about the hour when they might reasonably expect to have and to hold me, ... seems altogether unlawful, according to my sisters. Yet the temptation is strong. Would half-past twelve be too early for you, if I could manage to go at twelve? Ah—but I shall not be able, I do fear. Just see how it becomes possible and impossible at once for us to touch hands! I could almost wring mine, to see! For I could dare the spectacles, the hypothetical spectacles, and the eyes discerning without them: she has no idea to begin with—and you would not say ‘Ba, let us order the mules,’ I suppose. If I went, it would be alone—but probably I shall not be able—so you had better not think of me, and pay your visit at your own hour ‘after the devices of your heart.’

In the meanwhile, quite you make me laugh by your positiveness about the name-calling. Well—if ever I did such a thing, it was in a moment of unconsciousness all the more surprising, that, even to my own soul, in the lowest spirit-whisper, I have not been in the habit of saying ‘Robert,’ speaking of you. You have only been The One. No word ever stood for you. The Idea admitted of no representative—the words fell down before it and were silent. Still such very positive people must be right of course—they always are. At any rate it is only one illusion more—and some day I expect to hear you say and swear that you saw me fly out of one window and fly in at another. So much for your Cleopatra’s Roman pearls, oh my famous in council!—and appreciation of sour vinegar!

Dear Miss Mitford came at two to-day and stayed until seven, and all those hours you were not once mentioned—I had not courage—and she perhaps avoided an old subject of controversy ... I do not know. It is singular that for this year past you are not mentioned between us, while other names come up like grass in the rain. No single person will be more utterly confounded than she, when she comes to be aware of what you are to me now—and that I was thinking to-day, while she talked to never a listener. She will be confounded, and angry perhaps—it will be beyond her sympathies or if they reach so far, the effort to make them do so will prove a more lively affection for me, than, with all my trust in her goodness, I dare count on. Yet very good and kind and tender, she was to me to-day. And very variously intelligent and agreeable. Do you know, I should say that her natural faculties were stronger than Mrs. Jameson’s—though the latter has a higher aspiration and, in some ways, a finer sensibility of intellect. You would certainly call her superior to her own books—certainly you would. She walks strongly on her two feet in this world—but nobody shall see her (not even you) fly out of a window. Too closely she keeps to the ground, I always feel. Now Mrs. Jameson can ‘aspire’ like Paracelsus; and believes enough in her own soul, to know a poet when she sees one. Ah—but all cannot be all.

Miss Mitford wrung a promise from me—that ‘if I were well enough and in England next summer, I would go to see her.’ So remember. Isn’t it a promise for two?

Only we shall be mule-riding in those days—unless I shall have tired you. Shall you be tired of me in one winter, I wonder? My programme is, to let you try me for one winter, and if you are tired (as I shall know without any confession on your side) why then I shall set the mule on a canter and leave you in La Cava, and go and live in Greece somewhere all alone, taking enough with me for bread and salt. Is it a jest, do you think? Indeed it is not. It is very grave earnest, be sure. I believe that I never could quarrel with you; but the same cause would absolutely hinder my living with you if you did not love me. We could not lead the abominable lives of ‘married people’ all round—you know we could not—I at least know that I could not, and just because I love you so entirely. Then, you know, you could come to England by yourself—and ... ‘Where’s Ba?’—‘Oh, she’s somewhere in the world, I suppose. How can I tell?’ And then Mrs. Jameson would shake her head, and observe that the problem was solved exactly as she expected, and that artistical natures smelt of sulphur and brimstone, without any exceptions.

Am I laughing? am I crying? who can tell. But I am not teazing, ... Robert! because, my Robert, if gravely I distrusted your affection, I could not use such light-sounding words on the whole—now could I? It is only the supposition of a possible future ... just possible ... (as the end of human affections passes for a possible thing)—which made me say what I would do in such a case.

But I am yours—your own: and it is impossible, in my belief, that I can ever fail to you so as to be less yours, on this side the grave or across it. So, I think of impossibilities—whatever I may, of possibilities!

And if you love me only nearly as much (instead of the prodigal ‘more’) afterward, I shall be satisfied, and shall not run from you further than to the bottom of the page.

E.B.B. to R.B.

I am forced to say something now which you will not like and which I, for my part, hate to say—but you shall judge how impossible it is for me to see you to-morrow.

The visitors did not come last night; and as this morning we expected them hourly, the post brought a letter instead, to the effect that they were to arrive just on Saturday ... leaving us to calculate the time of arrival between one p.m. to five or six. If at one, ... Papa will be in the house and likely to stay in it all day after ... which would be a complication of disadvantages for us, and if at three ... why even so, my aunt would ‘admire’ a little the reason of my not seeing her at once, and there would be questions and answers a faire frémir. So dearest dearest, I must try to live these two days more without seeing you—and indeed it will be hard work—the very light of the sun to-morrow, let it be ever so bright a sun, will only reproach the day with what it ought to have been ... our day, instead of everybody’s day or nobody’s day, a poor, blank, dreary day. What, when the clock is at three ... oh what will keep me, I wonder, from being sullen to my aunt and sulky to my cousin? They will think me (if my ministering angel should not throw me some hallowing thought of you, best beloved!) considerably fallen off in the morale, however the improvement may be of the bodily health—I shall be as cross, as cross ... well, if I am less than cross, you must be right after all, and I, ‘une femme miraculeuse’ without illusion! It is too bad, too bad. The whole week—from Monday to Monday! And I do not positively fix even Monday, though I hope for Monday:—but Monday may be taken from us just as Saturday is, and the Hedleys are to come on Tuesday ... only not to this house. I wish they were all at Seringapatam.

Do not mind it however. Yes, mind it a little, ... Robert! but not overmuch—because the day shall not be lost utterly—I shall take care. I will be on the watch for half-days when people go out to shop ... that solemn business of life, ... and we will have our lost day back again ... you will see. But I could not get to Mrs. Jameson’s this morning, not being quite well enough. It is nothing as illness,—I tell you the truth, dear—and even now I feel better than I did in the early morning. It was only just enough to prevent my going. And if I had gone I should not have seen you—you would not go in time—you would not perhaps even have my letter in time. The stars are against us for the moment, it seems.

Write to me, think of me, love me. You shall hear on Saturday and on Sunday, and we will settle about Monday.

After all, it would have been difficult to have met you at Mrs. Jameson’s, observing the ‘fitness of things’: ... and as I am subject to the madness of saying ‘Robert’ without knowing it...!

May God bless you. Say how you are! Don’t let me slide out of your mind through this rift in the rock. I catch at the jutting stones.

R.B. to E.B.B.

No, dear, dear Ba, I shall not see you to-day in spite of all the hoping and fancying ... for I could not, as I calculate, reach Mrs. Jameson’s before 1 o’clock or a little later ... and there would be the worst of vexations, to know you had been and gone again! I persuade myself you may not pay the visit to-day, ... (‘it is impossible’ you say), and that it may be paid next week, the week in which there is only one day for us ... how do you say, dearest? all complaining is vain—let to-morrow make haste and arrive!

Ba, there is nothing in your letter that shocks me,—nothing: if you choose to imagine that ‘possibility,’ you are consistent in imagining the proper step to take ... it is all imagining. But I feel altogether as you feel about the horribleness of married friends, mutual esteemers &c.—when your name sounds in my ear like any other name, your voice like other voices,—when we wisely cease to interfere with each other’s pursuits,—respect differences of taste &c. &c., all will be over then!

I cannot myself conceive of one respect in which I shall ever fall from this feeling for you ... there never has been one word, one gesture unprompted by the living, immediate love beneath—but there have been many, many, so many that the same love has suppressed, refused to be represented by! I say this, because I can suppose a man taking up a service of looks and words, which service is only to last for a time, and so may be endured,—after which the ‘real affection,’ ‘honest attachment’ &c. &c. means to go to its ends by a shorter road, saving useless ceremony and phrases ... do you know what I mean? I hardly do ... except that it is, whatever it is, opposed, as heaven to earth, to what I feel is. I count confidently on being more and more able to find the true words and ways (which may not be spoken words perhaps), the true rites by which you should be worshipped, you dear, dear Ba, my entire blessing now and ever—and ever; if God shall save me also.

Let me kiss you now, and long for to-morrow—I shall bring you the poorest flowers——all is brown, dry, autumnal. The sun shines and reproves me.... After all, there would have been some rocks in the pleasant water of to-day’s meeting ... ‘Oh, hardness to dissemble’!

E.B.B. to R.B.

Ah! ‘to-morrow, make haste and arrive.’ And what good will to-morrow do when it comes?

Dearest, with your letter to-night, I have a note from Mrs. Jameson, who proposes that I should go to her just on this to-morrow, between twelve and one: she will wait for me till one and then go out. Moreover she leaves town on Tuesday. Now I think I ought to try to be with her this time, therefore, on the hour she mentions, and I will try ... I mean to try. But as for seeing you even so, and for a moment, ... I understand that it scarcely is possible—no, not possible—you cannot have time, I think. Thinking which, understanding which, I shall yet, in spite of reason, listen for the footstep and the voice: certainly I shall not help doing that.

Our to-morrow!—How they have spoilt it for us! In revenge, I shall love you to-morrow twice as much, looking at my dead flowers. Twice as much!! ‘Ba, never talk extravagances.’ Twice as much is a giant fifty feet high. It is foolish to be fabulous.

Being better this evening (almost as if I were sure to see you in the morning) I went out to drive with Arabel and Flush, about six o’clock,—and we were not at home until eight, after having seen a mirage (as it appeared) of green fields and trees. Beyond Harrow cemetery we went, through silent lanes and hedgerows—so silent, so full of repose! Quite far away over the tops of the trees, was ‘London,’ Arabel said ... but I could see only a cloud:—it seemed no more, nor otherwise. Once she got out and went into a field to give Flush a run—and I, left to myself and you, read your last letter in the carriage, under the branches which were dropping separate shadows of every leaf they had. The setting sun forced them to it. Oh—but I send you no leaves, because I could not reach any, and did not get out to walk to-day where I might have gathered them. Arabel tried hard to persuade me to go into the cemetery—but let me deserve all she said to me about weakness and foolishness, ... really that sort of thing does sadden me—my spirits fall flat with it: it is the dark side of death. So I begged her to go by herself and to leave me.... I would wait for her—and she should have as long a pleasure in that pleasure-ground of the Dead, as she liked. ‘Very pretty,’ it is said to be—the dissenters and the churchpeople planted in separate beds; and the Roman Catholics conspicuous for their roses! Oh that ghastly mixture of horror and frivolity! The niaiserie of their divisions and subdivisions taken down so carefully into the dust! But Arabel did not go at last, and we were at home quite late enough.

May God bless you, dear, dear! Give me all my thoughts (those that belong to me) to-morrow. Poor disinherited to-morrow.

And you are the best, best! When I speak lead, you answer gold. Because I ‘do not shock’ you, you melt my heart away with joy.