Do you know what you are to me, ... you? We talk of the mild weather doing me good ... of the sun doing me good ... of going into the air as a means of good! Have you done me no good, do you fancy, in loving me and lifting me up? Has the unaccustomed divine love and tenderness been nothing to me? Think! Mrs. Jameson says earnestly ... said to me the other day ... that ‘love was only magnetism.’ And I say in my heart, that, magnet or no magnet, I have been drawn back into life by your means and for you ... that I see the dancing mystical lights which are seen through the eyelids ... and I think of you with an unspeakable gratitude always—always! No other could have done this for me—it was not possible, except by you.
But, no—do not, beloved, wish the first days here again. You saw your way better in them than I did. I had too bitter feelings sometimes: they looked to me like an epigram of destiny! as if ‘He who sitteth on high should laugh her to scorn—should hold her in derision’—as why not? My best hope was that you should be my friend after all. We will not have them back again ... those days! And in these, you do not love me less but more? Would it be strange to thank you? I feel as if I ought to thank you!
I have written, written, and have more to write, yet must end here now. The letter I wrote this morning and gave to my sister to leave in the post, she was so naughty as to forget, and has been well scolded as a consequence; but the scolding did not avail, I fear, to take the letter to you to-night; there is no chance! Mrs. Jameson came to-day when I was engaged with Lady Margaret Cocks and I could not see her—and Mr. Kenyon came, when I could see him and was glad. I am tired with my multitude of visitors—oh, so tired!
Why are you melancholy, dear, dearest? Was it my fault? could that be? no—you were unwell, I think ... I fear. Say how you are; and believe that you may answer your own questions, for that I never can fail to you. If two persons have one will on a matter of that sort, they need not be thwarted here in London—so answer your own questions.
Wholly and ever yours I am.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, May 6, 1846.]
Dearest Ba let me [be] silent, as on other occasions, over what you promise: one reads of ‘a contest in generosity,’ and now this party was as determined to give, as that party not to accept—far from anything so graceful, I am compelled to clutch at the offering, I take all, because, because—because I must, now! May God requite you, my best beloved!
I met Mrs. Jameson last evening and she began just as I prophesied ... ‘but’ said she ‘I will tell you all when you come and breakfast with me on Thursday—which a note of mine now on its way to you, desires may happen!’
A large party at Chorley’s, and admirable music—not without a pleasant person or two. I wish you could hear that marvellous Pischek, with his Rhine songs, and Bohemian melodies. Then a Herr Kellerman told a kind of crying story on the violoncello, full of quiet pathos, and Godefroi—if they so spell him—harped like a God harping, immortal victorious music indeed! Altogether a notable evening ... oh, the black ingratitude of man ... these few words are the poor ‘set-off’ to this morning’s weary yawning, and stupefaction. To-night having to follow beside! So near you I shall be! Mrs. J. is to [be] at the Procters’ to-night too. Oh, by the way, and in the straight way to make Ba laugh ... Mrs. J.’s first word was ‘What? Are you married?’ She having caught a bit of Miss Chorley’s enquiry after ‘Mrs. Browning’s health’ i.e. my mother’s. Probably Miss Heaton’s friend, who is my intimate, heard me profess complete infidelity as to—homœopathy ... que sais-je? But of all accusations in the world ... what do you say to my having been asked if I was not the Author of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ and ‘Othello’? A man actually asked me that, as I sate in Covent Garden Pit to see the second representation of ‘Strafford’—I supposed he had been set on by somebody, but the simple face looked too quiet for that impertinence—I was muffled up in a cloak, too; so I said ‘No—so far as I am aware.’ (His question was, ‘is not this Mr. Browning the author of &c. &c.’) After the play, all was made clear by somebody in Macready’s dressing room—two burlesques on Shakespeare were in the course of performance at some minor theatre by a Mr. Brown, or Brownley, or something Brown-like—and to these my friend had alluded.