They were very hard letters, those from dearest Papa and dearest George. To the first I had to bow my head, I do not seem to myself to have deserved that full cup, in the intentions of this act, but he is my father and he takes his own view, of course, of what is before him to judge of. But for George, I thought it hard, I confess, that he should have written to me so with a sword. To write to me as if I did not love you all, I who would have laid down my life at a sign, if it could have benefited one of you really and essentially, with the proof, you should have had life and happiness at a sign.
It was hard that he should use his love for me to half break my heart with such a letter. Only he wrote in excitement and in ignorance. I ask of God to show to him and the most unbelieving of you, that never, never did I love you better, all my beloved ones, than when I left you, than in that day, and that moment.
My dearest, dearest Arabel! Understand both of you, that if, from the apparent necessities of the instant, I consented to let the ceremony precede the departure by some few days, it was upon the condition of not seeing him again in that house and till we went away.
We parted, as we met, at the door of Marylebone Church, he helped me at the communion table, and not a word passed after. I looked like death, he has said since. You see we were afraid of a sudden removal preventing everything, or at least, laying the unpleasantness on me of a journey to London previous to the ceremony, which particularly I should have hated, for very obvious reasons. There was no elopement in the case, but simply a private marriage; and to have given the least occasion to a certain class of observations, was repugnant to both of us, Wilson knew nothing till the night before. What I suffered under your eyes, you may guess, it was in proportion to every effort successfully made to disguise the suffering. Painful it is to look back upon now, forgive me for whatever was expiated in the deepest of my heart.
...
Did you get my long letter from Paris? And Trippy, my short note from Havre. Ah, dear Trippy! Let her not think hardly of me. No one can judge of this act, except some one who knows thoroughly the man I have married. He rises on me hour by hour. If ever a being of a higher order lived among us with a glory round his head, in these latter days, he is such a being.
Papa thinks that I have sold my soul for genius, mere genius. Which I might have done when I was younger, if I had had the opportunity, but am in no danger of doing now. For my sake, for the love of me, from an infatuation which from first to last has astonished me, he has consented to occupy for a moment a questionable position.
But those who question most, will do him justice fullest, and we must wait a little with resignation. In the meanwhile, what he is, and what he is to me, I would fain teach you. Have faith in me to believe it. He puts out all his great faculties to give me pleasure and comfort, charms me into thinking of him when he sees my thoughts wandering, forces me to smile in spite of nil of them, if you had seen him that day at Orleans.
He laid me down on the bed and sat by me for hours, pouring out floods of tenderness and goodness, and promising to win back for me, with God's help, the affection of such of you as were angry. And he loves me more and more. Today we have been together a fortnight, and he said to me with a deep, serious tenderness "I kissed your feet, my Ba, before I married you, but now I would kiss the ground under your feet, I love you with a so much greater love." And this is true, I see and feel. I feel to have the power of making him happy, I feel to have it in my hands. It is strange that anyone so brilliant should love me, but true and strange it is, and it is impossible for me to doubt it any more. Perfectly happy therefore we should be, if I could look back on you all without this pang. His family have been very kind. His father considered him of age to judge, and never thought of interfering otherwise than of saying at the last moment. Give your wife a kiss for me, this, when they parted. His sister sent me a little travelling writing desk, with a word written, "E.B.B. from her sister Sarianna." Nobody was displeased at the reserve used towards them, understanding that there were reasons for it which did not detract from his affection for them and my respect.
...
But I think... think... of the suffering I caused you, my own, own Arabel, that evening! I tremble thinking of you that evening, my own dearest dearest Arabel! Oh, do not fancy that new affections ran undo the old. I love you now even more, I think. Robert is going to write to you from Pisa, and to Henrietta also. He loves you as his sisters, he says, and wishes that you were with us, and hopes that one day you will be with us, staying and travelling with us, exactly as I do myself.
And do you feel and know, that as for me, for my position as a wife, it is awfully happy for this world. He is too good and tender, and beyond me in all things, and we love each other with a love that grows instead of diminishing. I speak to you of such thing rather than of the cathedral at Bourges, because, it is of these, I feel sure, that you desire knowledge rather.
I am going to write to Papa, and to George, very soon, I shall. Ah, dear George would not have written so, if he had known my whole heart, yet he loved me while he wrote, as I felt with every pain the writing caused me. Dear George, love him to his worth. And my poor Papa! My thoughts cling to you all, and will not leave their hold. Dearest Henrietta and Arabel let me be as ever and for ever.
your fondly attached
Ba
(Roanne)October 2, 1846
亲爱的妹妹们：
感谢和祝福你们，我最亲爱的亨里埃塔、阿拉贝尔……我最亲最爱的妹妹们——到了奥尔良，我遭受了什么呀——终于接到了你们的来信，我对你们的感激，就像我所遭受的痛苦一样深，像我在你们来信的字里行间留的泪水和亲吻一样多……你们是最亲爱最善良的。在巴黎耽搁了一周，因此一到奥尔良我就得面临死亡时刻——我当时称它为“死亡许可证”，我是那样地担忧和害怕。罗伯特抱来了一大摞信件……我把它们抓在手里，可一封也打不开。我浑身颤抖，脸色越发苍白，四肢越发冰凉。他想坐在我身旁，看着我读这些信，但我没有答应，我决不让他在那一刻到来时这样做——因此，一番央求后，我让他离开10分钟，以便自己独自承受这极度的痛苦。你们知道，按以往的习惯，那样会使我更坚强——而且，不让他看这些信是对的……