And your father’s goodness, and the affectionateness of them all. When they shall have learnt most that I am not worthy of you, they will have learnt besides that I can be grateful to them and you. Certainly I am capable, I hope, of loving them all, well and with appreciation. And then ... imagine the comfort I take to the deepest of my heart from these hands held out to me! For your sake! Yes, for your sake entirely!—and, so, the more dearly comforting to
Your very own Ba.
There is still difficulty about the house. They think of Tunbridge Wells.
Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]
My own Ba, could you think me capable of such a step? I forget what I exactly said in the first letter, but in the second, which you have received by this, I know there is mention made of your account which is to accompany mine. You never quite understood, I think, my feeling about Mr. Kenyon and desire to tell him earlier. In the first place, at the very beginning, he seemed to stand (as he did) in closer connection with you than any other person I could communicate with,—therefore to represent, in some degree, your dear self in the worldly sense, and be able to impose on me any conditions &c. which your generous nature might be silent on, and my ignorance and excitement overlook: then there was another reason, the natural one, of our own ... his friendship, rather, for me, and the circumstance of his having in a manner introduced me to your acquaintance,—at all events, facilitated my introduction,—and so being after a fashion responsible in some degree for my conduct. These two reasons, added to a general real respect for his circumspection and sagacity, and a desire to make both of them instruct me in the way of doing you good. But you effectually convinced me that in neither case would the benefit derivable balance the certain injury, or at least, annoyance, to himself—while you showed me that I should not be so truly serving you, as I had intended, by the plans I used to turn over in my mind.
In brief, it was written that your proof of love and trust to me was to be complete, the completest—and I could not but be proud and submit—and a few words will explain the mere sin against friendship. I quite, quite feel as you feel, nor ever had the least intention of writing ... that is, of sending any letter,—till the very last. Be sure of it.
For the cards, I have just given orders, as you desire and as I entirely agree. The notion of a word about our not being in England was only a fancy for your family’s sake—just to save people’s application to them, to know what had become of us—and I had heard Mr. Kenyon commend the considerateness of those ‘Lydian measures’ ... albeit there was ... or narrowly escaped being—an awful oversight of the traveller’s which would have made him the sad hero of a merry story for ever ... as I will tell you some day. If you will send the addresses, at any time, that trouble will be over. In all these mighty matters, be sure I shall never take the least step without consulting you—will you draw up the advertisement, please? I will supply the clergyman’s name &c. &c.
I shall not see one friend more before I leave with you. So that nobody needs divine that since the 12th, we have not been at Margate—seeking ‘food for the mind’—
11¾ A.M.
Dearest, I agree to all—I will not see you, for those reasons. I think, as you may, that it will be a point in excuse of the precipitancy that a removal was threatened for ‘next Monday perhaps’ ... which, finding us unprepared, would have been ruinous. Say all you would have me say to your father,—no concession shall be felt by the side of your love. I will write a few words to Mrs. J.—her kindness is admirable and deserves the attention. For the date,—you will have seen the precautions I take,—I hope to see nobody now; but I don’t know that it will be necessary to suppress it in the advertisement, if we can leave England by the end of the week, as I hope ... do you not hope, too? For I see announcements, in to-day’s Times, of marriages on the 8th and 9th and our silence on that particular might be only the beginning of some mystery ... as if it had happened half a year ago, for instance. Beside, your relations will examine the register. All rests with you, however—and will rest, Ba! I shall ask you to do no more of my business that I can manage myself but where I can not manage ... why, then you shall think for me,—that is my command!
I suppose when a man buys a spinning-machine he loses dignity because he lets it weave stockings,—does not keep on with his clumsy fingers! No, I will retain my honours, be certain,—you shall say, Ego et rex meus like Wolsey—or rather, like dear, dear Ba—like yourself I will ever worship! See the good of taking up arms against me out of that service! If you ‘honour and obey’ me, ‘with my body I thee worship’—my best, dearest, sweetest Ba, and that I have avowed thus ‘irrevocably’—is the heart’s delight of your own R.
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]
Dearest, you were in the right as usual, and I in a fright as sometimes. I took a mere fancy into my head about your writing to Mr. Kenyon. To-day he came, and I did not see him—on the ground of a headache, which, though real, was not really sufficient of itself to keep me from seeing him, if I had not distrusted my self-control—so I did not see him. To-morrow he goes away. His letters will of course be made to follow him, and we may easily precede the newspapers by a day or two.
As for the advertisements, you quite amuse me by telling me to compose an advertisement. How should I know better than you, dearest, or as well even? All I intermeddle with willingly is the matter of the date—although there is something in what you say about the mystery, and the idea of our being six months married—still it is our disquieted conscience that gives us such thoughts—and when the advertisement appears and the cards come out so very properly, people will not have enough imagination to apprehend a single mystery in the case: and the omission of the date will not be so singular ... will it? On the other hand I apprehend evil from the date of the marriage being known. One of my brothers may be sent to examine the register, but would not betray the fact in question, I think, to my father; would not, I am certain, willingly give cause for additional irritation against me. But if the date be publicly announced, Papa must know it, and most of my personal friends will be sure to know it. I have written letters and seen people since the twelfth ... Mr. Kenyon on Sunday, Miss Bordman on Monday. Moreover Papa would be exposed to unpleasant observations—he going every day among his City friends, and on Saturday among the rest. What quantities of good reasons, ... till you are tired of them and me!
Would you put it this way.... At such a church, by such a minister, Robert Browning Esquire, of New Cross, author of ‘Paracelsus,’ to Elizabeth Barrett, eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett Esquire of Wimpole Street. Would you put it so? I do not understand really, ... and whether you should be specified as the author of ‘Paracelsus’ ... but, for me, it ought to be, I think, simply as I have written it. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that what we did on Saturday is quite invalid, so that you may give me up now if you like—it isn’t too late. You gave me a wrong name—Moulton is no Christian name of mine. Moulton Barrett is our family name; Elizabeth Barrett, my Christian name—Behold and see!
I will send the list if I can have time to-night to write it—but the haste, the hurry—do you think, when in your right mind, of getting away this week? Think of the work before us! Next Monday is the day fixed for the general departure to a house taken at Little Bookham or Hookham ... what is it? Well—we must think. Tell me when you want me to go. I might go from the new house, perhaps. But you will think, dearest, and tell me. Tell me first, though, how your head continues or begins again ... for I fear that the good news is too sudden to last long—I fear.
Thankful, thankful I shall be when we are gone out of reach of evil, when I shall have heard that my poor dearest Papa is only angry with me, and not sorry because of me, and that Henrietta and Arabel are not too miserable. They come between me and the thought of you often—but I do not, for that, love you less—oh no. You are best and dearest in saying what you say—only, observe, there is not any practicable ‘concession’ now for you. All you can do now, is what you will do ... in being tolerant, and gentle, for my sake. My own dearest, I am your
Ba.
The list to-morrow.
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]
Ever dearest, you are right about the date ... so it shall be—and so the advertisement shall run, save and except the avowal of ‘Paracelsus’ ... I avow you, and to add another title of honour would succeed no better than in Dalhousie’s case, who was ‘God of War and Lieutenant-general to the Earl of Mar.’ I wanted the description &c. of your father. What a strange mistake I made—(but as for invalidation, oh no!)—I save your every word and then apply them thus! (In to-day’s Times is a notice without a date ... not looking at all singular. It is far better).
It is absolutely for yourself to decide on the day and the mode—if for no other reason, because I am quite ready, and shall have no kind of difficulty; while you have every kind. Make the arrangements that promise most comfort to yourself. Observe the packets and alter the route if necessary. There is one from Brighton to Dieppe every day, for instance ... but then the getting to Rouen! The Havre-boat leaves Southampton, Wednesdays and Saturdays—and Portsmouth, Mondays and Thursdays. The boat from London, Thursdays and Saturdays at 9 A.M.
I do not know where ‘Bookham’ is—you must decide ... I am sure you will be anxious to get away.
The business of the letters will grow less difficult when once begun—see if it will not! and in these four or five days whole epics might be written, much more letters. Have you arranged all with Wilson? Take, of course, the simplest possible wardrobe &c.—so as to reduce our luggage to the very narrowest compass. The expense—(beside the common sense of a little luggage)—is considerable—every ounce being paid for. Let us treat our journey as a mere journey—we can return for what else we want, or get it sent, or procure it abroad. I shall take just a portmanteau and carpet bag. I think the fewer books we take the better; they take up room—and the wise way always seemed to me to read in rooms at home, and open one’s eyes and see abroad. A critic somewhere mentioned that as my characteristic—were two other poets he named placed in novel circumstances ... in a great wood, for instance, Mr. Trench would begin opening books to see how woods were treated of ... the other man would set to writing poetry forthwith, from his old stock of associations, on the new impulse—and R.B. would sit still and learn how to write after! A pretty compliment, I thought that!—But seriously there must be a great library at Pisa ... (with that university!) and abroad they are delighted to facilitate such matters ... I have read in a chamber of the Doges’ palace at Venice painted all over by Tintoretto, walls and ceiling—and at Rome there is a library with a learned priest always kept ready ‘to solve any doubt that may arise!’ Murray’s book you have, I think? Any guide-books &c.
Be sure, dearest, I will do my utmost to conciliate your father: sometimes I could not but speak impatiently to you of him ... that was while you were in his direct power—now there is no need of a word in any case ... I shall be silent if the worst imaginable happens; and if anything better, most grateful. You do not need to remind me he is your father ... I shall be proud to say mine too. Then, he said that of you—for which I love him—love the full prompt justice of that ascription of ‘perfect purity’—it is another voice responding to mine, confirming mine.
Good-bye, dearest dearest; I continue quite well ... I thank God, as you do, and see his hand in it. My poor mother suffers greatly, but is no worse ... rather, better I hope. They (all here) will leave town for some quiet place at the beginning of October for some three weeks at least. Dear, kind souls they are.
Kiss me as I kiss you, dearest Ba. I can bring you no flowers but I pluck this bud and send it with all affectionate devotion.
Your own
R.B.
[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]
Dearest, the general departure from this house takes place on Monday—and the house at Little Bookham is six miles from the nearest railroad, and a mile and a half from Leatherhead where a coach runs. Now you are to judge. Certainly if I go with you on Saturday I shall not have half the letters written—you, who talk so largely of epic poems, have not the least imagination of my state of mind and spirits. I began to write a letter to Papa this morning, and could do nothing but cry, and looked so pale thereupon, that everybody wondered what could be the matter. Oh—quite well I am now, and I only speak of myself in that way to show you how the inspiration is by no means sufficient for epic poems. Still, I may certainly write the necessary letters, ... and do the others on the road ... could I, do you think? I would rather have waited—indeed rather—only it may be difficult to leave Bookham ... yet possible—so tell me what you would have me do.
Wilson and I have a light box and a carpet bag between us—and I will be docile about the books, dearest. Do you take a desk? Had I better not, I wonder?
Then for box and carpet bag.... Remember that we cannot take them out of the house with us. We must send them the evening before—Friday evening, if we went on Saturday ... and where? Have you a friend anywhere, to whose house they might be sent, or could they go direct to the railroad office—and what office? In that case they should have your name on them, should they not?
Now think for me, ever dearest—and tell me what you do not tell me ... that you continue better. Ah no—you are ill again—or you would not wait to be told to tell me. And the dear, dear little bud!—I shall keep it to the end of my life, if you love me so long, ... or not, sir! I thank you, dearest.
Your mother!—I am very, very sorry. Would it be better and kinder to wait on her account?—tell me that too.
Yes, they are perfectly kind. We must love them well:—and I shall, I am sure.
Mr. Kenyon sends the ‘Fawn,’ which is Landor’s Fawn, and desires me to send it to you when I have done with it. As if I could read a word! He directs me to write to him to Taunton, Somersetshire. May God bless you, beloved.
No more to-night from your very own
Ba.
Are not passengers allowed to carry a specific proportion of luggage? What do you mean then, by paying for every ounce? As to Dieppe, the diligence would be more fatiguing than the river, and, without strong reasons, one would prefer of course the Havre plan. Still I am not afraid of either. Think.
You might put in the newspaper ... of Wimpole Street and Jamaica, or ... and Cinnamon Hill, Jamaica. That is right and I thought of it at first—only stopped ... seeming to wish to have as little about poor Papa as possible. Do as you think best now.
[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]
My only sweetest, I will write just a word to catch the earlier post,—time pressing. Bless you for all you suffer ... I know it though it would be very needless to call your attention to the difficulties. I know much, if not all, and can only love and admire you,—not help, alas!
Surely these difficulties will multiply, if you go to Bookham—the way will be to leave at once. The letters may easily be written during the journey ... at Orleans, for example. But now,—you propose Saturday ... nothing leaves Southampton according to to-day’s advertisement, till Tuesday ... the days seemed changed to Tuesdays and Fridays. To-morrow at 8¼ P.M. and Friday the 22, 10¼. Provoking! I will go to town directly to the railway office and enquire particularly—getting the time-table also. Under these circumstances, we have only the choice of Dieppe (as needing the shortest diligence-journey)—or the Sunday morning Havre-packet, at 9 A.M.—which you do not consider practicable: though it would, I think, take us the quickliest out of all the trouble. I will let you know all particulars in a note to-night ... it shall reach you to-night.
If we went from London only, the luggage could be sent here or in any case, perhaps ... as one fly will carry them with me and mine, and save possibility of delay.
I am very well, dearest dearest—my mother no worse, better, perhaps—she is out now. Our staying and getting into trouble would increase her malady.
As you leave it to me,—the name, and ‘Wimpole St.’ will do. Jamaica sounds in the wrong direction, does it not? and the other place is distinctive enough.
Take no desk ... I will take a large one—take nothing you can leave—but secure letters &c. I will take out a passport. Did you not tell me roughly at how much you estimated our expenses for the journey? Because I will take about that much, and get Rothschild’s letter of credit for Leghorn. One should avoid carrying money about with one.
All this in such haste! Bless you, my dearest dearest Ba
Your R.
All was right in the licence, and Certificate and Register—the whole name is there, E.B.M.B. The clergyman made the mistake in not having the two names, but all runs right to read ... the essential thing.
5 o’clock.
[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]
My own Ba, I believe, or am sure the mistake has been mine—in the flurry I noted down the departures from Havre—instead of Southampton. You must either be at the Vauxhall Station by four o’clock—so as to arrive in 3 hours and a half at Southampton and leave by 8¼ P.M.—or must go by the Sunday Boat,—or wait till Tuesday. Dieppe is impossible, being too early. You must decide—and let me know directly. To-morrow is too early—yet one ... that is, I—could manage.
Ever your own, in all haste
R.B.
7½—Thursday
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]
My own Ba—forgive my mistaking! I had not enough confidence in my own correctness. The advertisement of the Tuesday and Friday Boats is of the South of England Steam Company. The Wednesday and Saturday is that of the South Western. There must be then two companies, because on the Southampton Railway Bill it is expressly stated that there are departures for Havre on all four days. Perhaps you have seen my blunder. In that case, you can leave by 1-2½ as you may appoint—
Your R.
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]
Dearest take this word, as if it were many. I am so tired—and then it shall be the right word.
Sunday and Friday are impossible. On Saturday I will go to you, if you like—with half done, ... nothing done ... scarcely. Will you come for me to Hodgson’s? or shall I meet you at the station? At what o’clock should I set out, to be there at the hour you mention?
Also, for the boxes ... we cannot carry them out of the house, you know, Wilson and I. They must be sent on Friday evening to the Vauxhall station, ‘to be taken care of.’ Will the people keep them carefully? Ought someone to be spoken to beforehand? If we sent them to New Cross, they would not reach you in time.
Hold me my beloved—with your love. It is very hard—But Saturday seems the only day for us. Tell me if you think so indeed.
Your very own Ba.
The boxes must have your name on them of course. Let there be no great haste about sending out the cards. Saturday might be mentioned in the advertisement, without the date—might it not?
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]
Dearest, here is the paper of addresses. I cannot remember, I am so confused, half of them.
Surely you say wrong in the hour for to-morrow. Also there is the express train. Would it not be better?
Your Ba.
11½ Friday.
[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]
My own best Ba. How thankful I am you have seen my blunder—I took the other company’s days for the South Western’s changed. What I shall write now is with the tables before me (of the Railway) and a transcript from to-day’s advertisement in the Times.
The packet will leave to-morrow evening, from the Royal Pier, Southampton at nine. We leave Nine Elms, Vauxhall, at five—to arrive at eight. Doors close five minutes before. I will be at Hodgson’s from half-past three to four precisely when I shall hope you can be ready. I shall go to Vauxhall, apprise them that luggage is coming (yours) and send mine there—so that we both shall be unencumbered and we can take a cab or coach from H’s.
Never mind your scanty preparations ... we can get everything at Leghorn,—and the new boats carry parcels to Leghorn on the 15th of every month, remember—so can bring what you may wish to send for.
I enclose a letter to go with yours. The cards as you choose—they are here—we can write about them from Paris or elsewhere. The advertisement, as you advise. All shall be cared for.
God bless and strengthen you, my ever dearest dearest—I will not trust myself to speak of my feelings for you—worship well belongs to such fortitude. One struggle more—if all the kindness on your part brought a strangely insufficient return, is it not possible that this step may produce all you can hope? Write to me one word more. Depend on me. I go to Town about business.
Your own, own R.
Friday Night.
[Post-mark, September 19, 1846.]
At from half-past three to four, then—four will not, I suppose, be too late. I will not write more—I cannot. By to-morrow at this time, I shall have you only, to love me—my beloved!
You only! As if one said God only. And we shall have Him beside, I pray of Him.
I shall send to your address at New Cross your Hanmer’s poems—and the two dear books you gave me, which I do not like to leave here and am afraid of hurting by taking them with me. Will you ask our Sister to put the parcel into a drawer, so as to keep it for us?
Your letters to me I take with me, let the ‘ounces’ cry out aloud, ever so. I tried to leave them, and I could not. That is, they would not be left: it was not my fault—I will not be scolded.
Is this my last letter to you, ever dearest? Oh—if I loved you less ... a little, little less.
Why I should tell you that our marriage was invalid, or ought to be; and that you should by no means come for me to-morrow. It is dreadful ... dreadful ... to have to give pain here by a voluntary act—for the first time in my life.
Remind your mother and father of me affectionately and gratefully—and your Sister too! Would she think it too bold of me to say our Sister, if she had heard it on the last page?
Do you pray for me to-night, Robert? Pray for me, and love me, that I may have courage, feeling both—
Your own
Ba.
The boxes are safely sent. Wilson has been perfect to me. And I ... calling her ‘timid,’ and afraid of her timidity! I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.
FACSIMILE OF LETTER OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT
(See Vol. I., p. 443)