As for what you wish yesterday ... the mode of my expressing my love ... I never think of it,—I have none—no system, nor attempt at such a thing—I begin and end by saying I love you—whatever comes of it. There is one obvious remark to make however ... that unless I had loved you and felt that every instant of my life depended on you for its support and comfort,—I should never have dreamed of what has been proposed and accepted ... Your own goodness at the very beginning would have rendered that superfluous; for I was put in possession of your friendship,—might write to you, and receive letters—might even hope to see you as often as anybody—would not this have sufficed a reasonable friendship? May not Mr. Kenyon be your satisfied friend?... But all was different—and so——

So I am blessed now—and can only bless you. But goodbye, dearest, till to-morrow—and next day, which is ours. At 8—eight I conjecture my martyrdom may take place ... oh, think of me and help me! I shall feel you,—as ever. You forgot the letter after all ... can you send it? It may be convenient to produce, as I know nobody of them all—terrible it is altogether! ‘At six’ the dinner begins— —I shall get behind my brother Dramatists ... and say very little about them, even.

Kiss me, in any case, of failure, or success,—and the one will be forgotten, and the other doubled, centupled—to your own—

E.B.B. to R.B.

Tuesday.
[Post-mark, May 13, 1846.]

When you began to speak of the islands, the three islands, I thought you were going to propose that you should live in one, and Flush in one, and I in the third: and almost it was so, ... only that you took, besides, the ‘farthest’ for yourself! Observe!—always I write nonsense, when you send me a letter which moves me like this, ... dearest, ... my own!

To-day Mrs. Jameson has been here, and having left with me a proof about Titian, she comes again to-morrow to take it. I think her quite a lovable person now—I like her more and more. How she talked of you to-day, and called you the most charming companion in the world, setting you too on your right throne as ‘poet of the age.’ Wouldn’t it have been an ‘effect’ in the midst of all, if I had burst out crying? And what with being flurried, frightened, and a little nervous from not sleeping well last night, I assure you it was quite possible—but happily, on every account, I escaped that ‘dramatic situation.’ I wish ... no, I can’t wish that she wouldn’t talk of you as she does whenever she comes here. And then, to make it better, she told me how you had recited ‘in a voice and manner as good as singing,’ my ‘Catarina.’ How are such things to be borne, do you think, when people are not made of marble? But I took a long breath, and held my mask on with both hands.

You will tell me of the Marc Antonio prints,—will you not? Remember them on Thursday. Raffael’s—are they not? I shall expect ever so much teaching, and showing, and explaining ... I, who have seen and heard nothing of pictures and music, from you who know everything ... so the cicale must not be too loud for that. Did ever anyone say to you that you were like Raffael’s portrait—not in the eyes, which are quite different, but in the lower part of the face, the mouth, and also the brow? It has struck me sometimes—and I had it on my lips to-day as a question to Mrs. Jameson. I think I was mad to-day altogether. But she did not see it—(I mean my madness ... not your likeness!) [and] went away unconsciously.

Here, at last, is the letter! Careless that I was yesterday!—