R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]

I have spoken again, and the result is that we are in precisely the same position; only with bitterer feelings on one side. If I go or stay they _must_ be bitter: words have been said that I cannot easily forget, nor remember without pain; and yet I really do almost smile in the midst of it all, to think how I was treated this morning as an undutiful daughter because I tried to put on my gloves ... for there was no worse provocation. At least he complained of the undutifulness and rebellion (!!!) of everyone in the house--and when I asked if he meant that reproach for _me_, the answer was that he meant it for all of us, one with another. And I could not get an answer. He would not even grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what I supposed to be good, to _him_. I told him that my prospects of health seemed to me to depend on taking this step, but that through my affection for him, I was ready to sacrifice those to his pleasure if he exacted it--only it was necessary to my self-satisfaction in future years, to understand definitely that the sacrifice _was_ exacted by him and _was_ made to him, ... and not thrown away blindly and by a misapprehension. And he would not answer _that_. I might do my own way, he said--_he_ would not speak--_he_ would not say that he was not displeased with me, nor the contrary:--I had better do what I liked:--for his part, he washed his hands of me altogether.

And so I have been very wise--witness how my eyes are swelled with annotations and reflections on all this! The best of it is that now George himself admits I can do no more in the way of speaking, ... I have no spell for charming the dragons, ... and allows me to be pa.s.sive and enjoins me to be tranquil, and not 'make up my mind' to any dreadful exertion for the future. Moreover he advises me to go on with the preparations for the voyage, and promises to state the case himself at the last hour to the 'highest authority'; and judge finally whether it be possible for me to go with the necessary companionship.

And it seems best to go to Malta on the 3rd of October--if at all ...

from steam-packet reasons ... without excluding Pisa ... remember ...

by any means.

Well!--and what do you think? Might it be desirable for me to give up the whole? Tell me. I feel aggrieved of course and wounded--and whether I go or stay that feeling must last--I cannot help it. But my spirits sink altogether at the thought of leaving England _so_--and then I doubt about Arabel and Stormie ... and it seems to me that I _ought not_ to mix them up in a business of this kind where the advantage is merely personal to myself. On the other side, George holds that if I give up and stay even, there will be displeasure just the same, ... and that, when once gone, the irritation will exhaust and smooth itself away--which however does not touch my chief objection. Would it be better ... more _right_ ... to give it up?

Think for me. Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be thrown off--_that_ is my conviction. But ... shall I give up _at once_? Do think for me.

And I have thought that if you like to come on Friday instead of Sat.u.r.day ... as there is the uncertainty about next week, ... it would divide the time more equally: but let it be as you like and according to circ.u.mstances as you see them. Perhaps you have decided to go at once with your friends--who knows? I wish I could know that you were better to-day. May G.o.d bless you

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]

You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know certain feelings _you_ had been forced to endure. I suppose all of us have the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most--and I truly wish _you_ may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this treatment, which I refuse to characterize--so blind is it _for_ blindness. I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and a child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love's caprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying source. Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections--you remember what--to myself, my own happiness,--did I once allude to, much less argue against, or refuse to acknowledge those objections?

For I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest, wariest, pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance they entail--but now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded, but ruined, cast away. And whoever is privileged to interfere should do so in the possessor's own interest--all common sense interferes--all rationality against absolute no-reason at all. And you ask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all pa.s.sive obedience and implicit submission of will and intellect is by far too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by G.o.d to Man in this life of probation--for they _evade_ probation altogether, though foolish people think otherwise. Chop off your legs, you will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will find it is difficult to reason ill. 'It is hard to make these sacrifices!'--not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty of an Eternity to come; 'hard to effect them, then, and go through with them'--_not_ hard, when the leg is to be _cut off_--that it is rather harder to keep it quiet on a stool, I know very well. The partial indulgence, the proper exercise of one's faculties, there is the difficulty and problem for solution, set by that Providence which might have made the laws of Religion as indubitable as those of vitality, and revealed the articles of belief as certainly as that condition, for instance, by which we breathe so many times in a minute to support life. But there is no reward proposed for the feat of breathing, and a great one for that of believing--consequently there must go a great deal more of voluntary effort to this latter than is implied in the getting absolutely rid of it at once, by adopting the direction of an infallible church, or private judgment of another--for all our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief, and there is but one law, however modified, for the greater and the less. In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to yourself; that is, to G.o.d in the end. Your own reason should examine the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in requisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your conduct should have its utmost claims considered--your father's in the first place; and that interest, not in the miserable limits of a few days' pique or whim in which it would seem to express itself; but in its whole extent ... the _hereafter_ which all momentary pa.s.sion prevents him seeing ... indeed, the _present_ on either side which everyone else must see. And this examination made, with whatever earnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion you should act, in confidence that a duty has been performed ...

_difficult_, or how were it a duty? Will it _not_ be infinitely harder to act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who can _not_ do that?

I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will fall--knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain or point to, will be caught and understood, and presented in a better light. The hard thing ... this is all I want to say ... is to act on one's own best conviction--not to abjure it and accept another will, and say '_there_ is my plain duty'--easy it is, whether plain or no!

How 'all changes!' When I first knew you--you know what followed. I supposed you to labour under an incurable complaint--and, of course, to be completely dependent on your father for its commonest alleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached myself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any proposition I might then have made--for though I have never been at all frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with it, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet I could not but feel the consideration, of _what_ failure would _now_ be, paralyse all effort even in fancy. When you told me lately that 'you could never be poor'--all my solicitude was at an end--I had but myself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe, that I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could cheerfully and confidently undertake the removing _that_ obstacle. Now again the circ.u.mstances shift--and you are in what I should wonder at as the veriest slavery--and I who _could_ free you from it, I am here scarcely daring to write ... though I know you must feel for me and forgive what forces itself from me ... what retires so mutely into my heart at your least word ... what _shall not_ be again written or spoken, if you so will ... that I should be made happy beyond all hope of expression by. Now while I _dream_, let me once dream! I would marry you now and thus--I would come when you let me, and go when you bade me--I would be no more than one of your brothers--'_no more_'--that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Sat.u.r.day, I should get Sat.u.r.day as well--two hours for one--when your head ached I should be _here_. I deliberately choose the realization of that dream (--of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any other, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I know--And it will continue but a dream.

G.o.d bless my dearest E.B.B.

R.B.

You understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose.

I am better--thank you--and will go out to-day.

You know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Friday Evening.

[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.]

I had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the house by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I had wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been possible.

But it will be the same thing--for you know as well as if you saw my answer, what it must be, what it cannot choose but be, on pain of sinking me so infinitely below not merely your level but my own, that the depth cannot bear a glance down. Yet, though I am not made of such clay as to admit of my taking a base advantage of certain n.o.ble extravagances, (and that I am not I thank G.o.d for your sake) I will say, I must say, that your words in this letter have done me good and made me happy, ... that I thank and bless you for them, ... and that to receive such a proof of attachment from _you_, not only overpowers every present evil, but seems to me a full and abundant amends for the merely personal sufferings of my whole life. When I had read that letter last night I _did_ think so. I looked round and round for the small bitternesses which for several days had been bitter to me, and I could not find one of them. The tear-marks went away in the moisture of new, happy tears. Why, how else could I have felt? how else do you think I could? How would any woman have felt ... who could feel at all ... hearing such words said (though 'in a dream' indeed) by such a speaker?

And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even _you_ could have touched me--my heart was full when you came here to-day. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you harm--and I am yours too much, in my heart, ever to consent to do you harm in that way. If I could consent to do it, not only should I be less loyal ... but in one sense, less yours. I say this to you without drawback and reserve, because it is all I am able to say, and perhaps all I _shall_ be able to say. However this may be, a promise goes to you in it that none, except G.o.d and your will, shall interpose between you and me, ... I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate time from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you whatever at that hour you shall choose ... whether friend or more than friend ... a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with G.o.d and with you--only in the meanwhile you are most absolutely free ...

'unentangled' (as they call it) by the breadth of a thread--and if I did not know that you considered yourself so, I would not see you any more, let the effort cost me what it might. You may force me _feel_: ... but you cannot force me to _think_ contrary to my first thought ... that it were better for you to forget me at once in one relation.

And if better for _you_, can it be bad for _me_? which flings me down on the stone-pavement of the logicians.

And now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget afterwards that it ever was asked? I have hesitated a great deal; but my face is down on the stone-pavement--no--I will not ask to-day--It shall be for another day--and may G.o.d bless you on this and on those that come after, my dearest friend.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.]

Think for me, speak for me, my dearest, _my own_! You that are all great-heartedness and generosity, do that one more generous thing?

G.o.d bless you for

R.B.

What can it be you ask of me!--'a boon'--once my answer to _that_ had been the plain one--but now ... when I have better experience of--No, now I have BEST experience of how you understand my interests; that at last we _both_ know what is my true good--so ask, ask! _My own_, now!

For there it is!--oh, do not fear I am '_entangled_'--my crown is loose on my head, not nailed there--my pearl lies in my hand--I may return it to the sea, if I will!

What is it you ask of me, this first asking?

_E.B.B. to R.B._

[Post-mark, September 29, 1845.]

Then _first_, ... first, I ask you not to misunderstand. Because we do not ... no, we do not ... agree (but disagree) as to 'what is your true good' ... but disagree, and as widely as ever indeed.

The other asking shall come in its season ... some day before I go, if I go. It only relates to a rest.i.tution--and you cannot guess it if you try ... so don't try!--and perhaps you can't grant it if you try--and I cannot guess.

Cabins and berths all taken in the Malta steamer for both third and twentieth of October! see what dark lanterns the stars hold out, and how I shall stay in England after all as I think! And thus we are thrown back on the old Gibraltar scheme with its shifting of steamers ... unless we take the dreary alternative of Madeira!--or Cadiz! Even suppose Madeira, ... why it were for a few months alone--and there would be no temptation to loiter as in Italy.

_Don't_ think too hardly of poor Papa. You have his wrong side ... his side of peculiar wrongness ... to you just now. When you have walked round him you will have other thoughts of him.

Are you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and trying to be better?

May G.o.d bless you! Tuesday need not be the last day if you like to take one more besides--for there is no going until the fourth or seventh, ... and the seventh is the more probable of those two. But now you have done with me until Tuesday.