Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]
That is sufficient, ever dearest: now dismiss the matter from your thoughts, as I shall—having forced myself once to admit that most dreadful of possibilities and to provide for it, I need not have compunction at dwelling on the brighter, better chances which God’s previous dispensations encourage me to expect. There may be even a claimant, instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can bequeath—who knows? For which reason, but most of all for the stronger yourself adduce—the contingency of your illness—I do not ask you to ‘relinquish a part’—not as our arrangements now are ordered: for I have never been so foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of my obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain respects I should have preferred to try the first course,—at the beginning at least, when my faculties seemed more my own and that ‘end of the summer’ had a less absorbing interest (as I perceive now)—yet, as that is not to be, I have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on my exertions,—which I could not be sure of,—particularly with this uncertain head of mine. I hope when we once are together, the world will not hear of us again until the very end—it would be horrible to have to come back to it and ask its help.
I wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit—our Tuesday would be safer—I shall be with you unless a letter forbids. I can only say this now, because I expect my visitors nearly directly,—Moxon and Forster, do you remember? And the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I should fill sheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell you how I love you—‘more than ever’—I am wholly your own, dearest dearest.
Pat Flush for me—after having let me kiss you, Ba!
E.B.B. to R.B.
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 28, 1846.]
Ever dearest, your ‘Hush’ came too late. I had spoken. Do not blame me however,—for I do not blame myself. It was not very possible that I should allow your fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath. Nevertheless we will not carry on this discussion any farther: my simple protest is enough for the present,—and we shall have time, I hope, in the future, for your nobleness to unteach itself from being too proud. At any rate, let the subject be, now! I mentioned my ‘eldest surviving brother’ in that way in the paper, because he is put out of the question by the estates being entailed ... the Jamaica estates, I mean. And now, to have done! Unless I could make you easier—!
Dearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday ... for my aunt goes out and we shall have a clear ground. Ah—can it be true that you wish me to be with you so—dearest, dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after? Yet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections, always. Let them count for something, that it may not be entirely an absence.
Bennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my coffee on the little tray on Saturday, there was a Bennett ready on one corner. Then I must not forget to tell you how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine?) writes of you to me, ... speaking what she little knows the effects of ... ‘I hope,’ she says, ‘that you admire “Luria” greatly. I don’t know whether you will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I feel inclined to call Browning the greatest dramatic genius we have had for hundreds of years.’ Can anybody be more than the ‘greatest’ to anybody? Half inclined I might be to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you—yet no. Dearest is greater than Greatest ... even if one Greatest were not greater than another.