Can I write of such questions in the midst of packing?

May God bless you both!  Write to me in Paris, and do come soon and find us out.

Robert’s love.  My love to you both, dearest friends.  May God bless you!  Your ever affectionate

BA.

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To Mr. Ruskin

13 Dorset Street:  Tuesday morning, October 17, 1855 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Ruskin,—­I can’t express our amount of mortification in being thwarted in the fulfilment of the promise you allowed us to make to ourselves, that we would go down to you once more before leaving England.  What with the crush rather than press of circumstances, I have scarcely needed the weather to pin me to the wall.  Sometimes my husband could not go with me, sometimes I couldn’t go with him, and always we waited for one another in hope, till this last day overtook us.  To-morrow (D.V.) we shall be in Paris.  Now, will you believe how we have wished and longed to see you beyond these strait tantalising limits?—­how you look to us at this moment like the phantasm of a thing dear and desired, just seen and vanishing?  What! are you to be ranked among my spiritualities after all?  Forgive me that wrong.

Then you had things to say to me, I know, which in your consideration, and through my cowardice, you did not say, but yet will!

Will you write to me, dear Mr. Ruskin, sometimes, or have I disgusted you so wholly that you won’t or can’t?

Once, I know, somewhat because of shyness and somewhat because of intense apprehension—­somewhat, too, through characteristic stupidity (no contradiction this!)—­I said I was grateful to you when you had just bade me not.  Well, I really couldn’t help it.  That’s all I can say now.  Even if your appreciation were perfectly deserved at all points, why, appreciation means sympathy, and sympathy being the best gift nearly which one human creature can give another, I don’t understand (I never could) why it does not deserve thanks.  I am stupid perhaps, but for my life I never could help being grateful to the people who loved me, even if they happened to say, ‘I can’t help it! not I!’

As for Mr. Ruskin, he sees often in his own light.  That’s what I see and feel.

Will you write to me sometimes?  I come back to it.  Will you, though I am awkward and shy and obstinate now and then, and a wicked spiritualist to wit—­a realist in an out-of-the-world sense—­accepting matter as a means (no matter for it otherwise!)?

Don’t give me up, dear Mr. Ruskin!  My husband’s truest regards, and farewell from both of us!  I would fain be

Your affectionate friend,
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Our address in Paris will be, 102 Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St.
Germain.

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