5406. Julia Wedgwood to RB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 74–75.
1, Cumberland Place, N.W.
Saturday. June 25th [1864] [1]
Dear & kindest friend.
It brings me as near to a pleasure as any thing can in this terrible moment to write to you, & tell you that all is peacefully over, & that the spirit we have been watching for so long has passed out of the range of our small vision. It was yesterday at 3 o’clock, without pain or struggle of any kind. I have lost a Brother. [2] —it seems so natural to write it to you, you who have been to me a Barnabas [3] in such a sorrow as I trust no human being is called upon twice to endure in this life. It seems strange to say so much without fear of misconception, but I go on to say more, & express to you a part of the consolation you have given me. It is that while I have shivered in this cold darkness without a glimmer of hope, or with only a glimmer, I have felt with you in the presence of one who could bear a loss so much greater than mine because the remnant of life was an insignificant break in an intercourse not more secure in the Past than in the Future. I knew the tone of hope, of life, could not exist apart from that knowledge, I knew what a wreck your life would be, if you could not discern an opening, where I saw only darkness.– I suppose this moonlight trust is all that can be attained by those who walk on the night side of the world, but to them it is a witness to the unseen sun, when nothing else can be.
At this solemn moment it seems easy to go on, rather it seems impossible to stop, till I have said all I want to say. I think it has been indeed implied in every word of mine to you, but I wish to say it distinctly. A woman who has taken the initiative in a friendship with a man, as I have done with you, has either lost all right feeling, or has come to a very definite decision on the issue of all such friendships. I have told you what our intercourse has been to me, & I am sure you hardly needed to be told, for it was sufficiently obvious. But precious as it is, I could—not perhaps at this painful moment, but in due time—bear to give it up without unreasonable pain, for any reason but one, for any good reason at least. That one exception would be if your kind heart checked you in any approach to me with a fear of the consequences to myself. I have never seen the slightest tinge of such a fear, but I am made cowardly by a life of much estrangement & suffering, I prefer the scorn which falls on those who say too much, to the price which may have to be paid by those who say too little. I could look back on our concluded intercourse without any bitterness if it were simply ended by the natural course of events, calling you to more equal friendships, but it would be bitter, oh very bitter, to feel that you had drawn back from mistaken kindness to me, that you had feared to inflict a pain against which I am shielded by the deliberate decision of my mature life. Again & eagerly I declare that I have never seen any approach to this in your mind, it is the natural suggestion of my own. It seems to me almost an unnecessary protest, but that almost tears away all my scruple in the strangeness of what I write.– I cannot afford to lose any more kindness & sympathy, it would be the harder to lose it through kindness.
I write to you in the awful stillness that follows that last look. I can only speak as spirit to spirit. Nay, why do I justify myself?—for I have no fears of your misconception. I know that the strangeness would strike any one else, but I believe it will seem quite natural to you. I believe that you, from the first have consciously supplied that place which has for some time been empty to me!– That it may be so for a time is my utmost hope, when it ceases to become natural or easy do not try to continue it, I have a fine ear for any strain in intercourse. Remember then that the knowledge of you was a cordial in this swoon of life that is not likely to recur—that I had such a consolation exactly at the moment when I imperiously needed it.
I shall very soon wish to see you again, & perhaps you will let me summon you. You will not wonder to hear that my mother is physically worn out, but I think it the best thing for her mind. When I can see any one, it will be you.
Ever yours very gratefully
Julia Wedgwood
Publication: RB-JW, pp. 26–28.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library.
1. The year was pencilled on the manuscript by Miss Wedgwood, subsequent to its return to her in 1913.
3. St. Barnabas, companion of St. Paul, is first mentioned in Acts 4:36: “And Joses, who by the apostles was surnamed Barnabas, (which is, being interpreted, The son of consolation,) a Levite, and of the country of Cyprus.”
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