"For these two dear letters, I thank you, dearest! You
are best, as ever! And that is all I have to tell you, almost—for I have
seen nobody, heard nothing .. except that Eugene Sue can paint, .. which
Miss Mitford told me this morning in a note of hers,.. in
which, besides, she complains of the fatigue she suffers from the visitors who
go to see her after the Reading prison, as the next “sight” of the
neighbourhood. Better, to live in Cheapside, than among the oaks, on such
conditions!– As to Mr Kenyon, he does not approach me. So he may come tomorrow
perhaps, or even on wednesday. Would it not appear the top of wisdom if you
deferred our day to thursday’s sun!—now consider! It would be a decided gain,
surely, to be able to say to him on wednesday that you had not seen me since you
& he saw me together– So I propose thursday, if you permit it. Next
week we may take up our two days again, as one takes up so many dropt silken
stitches, .. & we will be careful that the beads do not run off in the
meantime– Today George came from circuit. He asked, for nearly a first question,
whether I had thought of Italy—'Yes, I had thought of it—but there was time to
think more'. I am uneasy a little under George’s eyes—.
You did not tell me of Mr Chorley .. whether he put
questions about the continent, or observed on the mysteries in you– Does he go
himself, & when? A curious 'fact' is, that Mrs Jameson was in the next house
to us this morning, & also a few days
ago,—yet never came here—the reason certainly being a reluctance to seem to
tread in upon the recoiling confidence. I felt sorry, & obliged to her—both
at once. Talking of confidences, I neglected to tell you when you were here
last, that one more had escaped us– It was not by my choice, if by my fault. I
wrote something in a note to Mr Boyd some weeks ago, which nobody except himself
could have paused to think over,—but he, like a
prisoner in a dungeon, sounds every stone of the walls round him, & discerns
a hollowness, detects a wooden beam, .. & patiently pricks out the mortar
with a pin—all this, in his rayless, companionless Dark,—poor Mr Boyd! The time
before I last went to see him, he asked me if I were going to be a nun——there,
was the first guess!– On the next visit, he put his question precisely right–
I tried to evade—then, promised to be frank in a little time—but being
pressed on all sides, & drawn on by a solemn vow of secrecy, I allowed him
to see the truth—& he lives such an isolated life, that it is perfectly safe
with him, setting the oath aside. Also, he was very good & kind, &
approved highly of the whole, & exhorted me, with ever such exhortation, to
keep to my purpose, & to allow no consideration in the world or out of the
world, to make any difference—quoting the moral philosophers as to the rights of
such questions. Is there harm in his knowing? He knows nobody, talks to nobody,
& is very faithful to his word– Just as I, you will retort, was
foolish in mine! Yet I do assure you, mine was a sort of word, which to nine
hundred & ninety nine persons, would have suggested nothing—only he
mused over it, turned it into all lights, & had nothing to do but
that. Afterwards he was proud, & asked .. “Was I not acute?” It was a
pleasure to him, one could not grudge."
Oh dear, she is getting careless.
"Are you well, ever dearest? I am well. And yesterday, while they were at
dinner, I walked out alone, or with Flush—twice to the corner of the street,
turning it, to post your letter. May God bless you– Surely we feel alike in
many, many things—the convolvuluses grow together, twisted together—& you
lift me up from the ground,—you! I am your very own–...."
And Browning sends a very short note today:
"I come home from Town for my letters .. the two I
ventured to expect, and here they meet me– As I said, you had written,
and I thanked you then, and now, too, just as if I had been
despairing all along—and over and above, there are some especial thanks to
pay,—for when I could not otherwise disengage myself from a dinner a little way
out of town, .. having unawares confessed to the day’s being at my disposal, ..
I said—“I expect letters at home which must be answered”—and here I
am–
Or rather, here are you, dearest, .. in, I do think,
your dearest mood– I must shift my ground already, alter my moment of time, and
avow that it is now I love you the best, the completeliest. Do you want
to know how much kindness I can bear? If I ever am so happy as to speak so as to
please you, it may be only your own kindness overflowing and running back to you
.. I feel every day, often in every day, the regret follow some thought of
you,—that this thought, for instance, if I could secure and properly tell
you this only, you would know my love for what it is,—and yet that
this thought will pass unexpressed like the others! Well, I do not
care—rightly considered, there is not so much to regret—the words should
lead to acts, and be felt insufficient.
Can we collect then, from Mr Kenyon’s caution, or
discretion, or pity, or ignorance, that he will not interpose, and that there
will be one great effort, and acknowledgment for all? I should certainly
like it so best. You seem stronger than to need the process of
preparatory disclosures, now to one, now to another friend– It is clearly best
as it is like to be .. for perhaps the chances are in our favour that the few
weeks more will be uninterrupted.
My time is gone—and nothing said! For tomorrow, all
rests with you .. if the note bids me go, I shall be in absolute
readiness—otherwise on wednesday .. just as you seem to discern the times and
the seasons.
Bless you my own best, dearest Ba—your own
Browning's letter today sounds a lot like his letter from yesterday and the day before that. Love has made a cuckoo of him.
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