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Browning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1 (of 2) 1845-1846 + +Author: Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett + +Editor: Robert B.Browning + +Release Date: July 2, 2005 [EBook #16182] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF BROWNING *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Linda Cantoni, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<br> +<h1> + THE LETTERS +</h1> +<h2> OF +</h2> +<h1> + ROBERT BROWNING +</h1> +<h2> + AND +</h2> +<h1> + ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT +</h1> +<h2> + 1845-1846 +</h2> +<center> + <i>WITH PORTRAITS AND FACSIMILES</i> +</center> +<center> + IN TWO VOLUMES +</center> +<center> + VOL. I. +</center> +<center> + FOURTH IMPRESSION +</center> +<center> + LONDON +</center> +<center> + SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE +</center> +<center> + 1900 +</center> +<a name="image-0001"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/image01.png" width="326" height="419" +alt="Robert Browning"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <b>Robert Browning</b></p> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + from an oil painting by Gordigiani</p> + +<br> +<hr> +<br> + +<h2> + NOTE +</h2> +<p> + In considering the question of publishing these letters, which are all + that ever passed between my father and mother, for after their + marriage they were never separated, it seemed to me that my only + alternatives were to allow them to be published or to destroy them. I + might, indeed, have left the matter to the decision of others after my + death, but that would be evading a responsibility which I feel that I + ought to accept. +</p> +<p> + Ever since my mother's death these letters were kept by my father in a + certain inlaid box, into which they exactly fitted, and where they + have always rested, letter beside letter, each in its consecutive + order and numbered on the envelope by his own hand. +</p> +<p> + My father destroyed all the rest of his correspondence, and not long + before his death he said, referring to these letters: 'There they are, + do with them as you please when I am dead and gone!' +</p> +<p> + A few of the letters are of little or no interest, but their omission + would have saved only a few pages, and I think it well that the + correspondence should be given in its entirety. +</p> +<p> + I wish to express my gratitude to my father's friend and mine, Mrs. + Miller Morison, for her unfailing sympathy and assistance in + deciphering some words which had become scarcely legible owing to + faded ink. +</p> + <p align="right" style="text-align: right">R.B.B. + </p> + + <p style="text-indent: 0em; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">1898.</p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> + + +<h2> + ADVERTISEMENT +</h2> +<p> + The correspondence contained in these volumes is printed exactly as it + appears in the original letters, without alteration, except in respect + of obvious slips of the pen. Even the punctuation, with its + characteristic dots and dashes, has for the most part been preserved. + The notes in square brackets [] have been added mainly in order to + translate the Greek phrases, and to give the references to Greek + poets. For these, thanks are due to Mr. F.G. Kenyon, who has revised + the proofs with the assistance of Mr. Roger Ingpen, the latter being + responsible for the Index. +</p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> + +<h2> + ILLUSTRATIONS +</h2> +<p> + +<br> +<br><a href="#image-0001">PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BROWNING</a> <i> Frontispiece</i> +<br> <i>After the picture by Gordigiani</i></p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"><a href="#image-0004">FACSIMILE OF LETTER OF ROBERT BROWNING</a> <i> To face p. 578</i></p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> + + +<h3> + THE LETTERS OF</h3> + +<h2> + ROBERT BROWNING</h2> + +<h3> + AND </h3> + +<h2>ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT</h2> + +<h3> + 1845-1846 </h3> + <br> + <hr> + <br> + + +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.<br> + [Post-mark, January 10, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I <SPAN class="sc-ex">love</span> your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,—and this is + no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,—whatever else, + no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a + graceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I + first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been + turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you + of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I + would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when + I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration—perhaps even, + as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some + little good to be proud of hereafter!—but nothing comes of it all—so + into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living + poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew—Oh, how + different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized + highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom, + and shut up and put away ... and the book called a 'Flora,' besides! + After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; + because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason + for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, + the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave + thought; but in this addressing myself to you—your own self, and for + the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love + these books with all my heart—and I love you too. Do you know I was + once not very far from seeing—really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to + me one morning 'Would you like to see Miss Barrett?' then he went to + announce me,—then he returned ... you were too unwell, and now it is + years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if + I had been close, so close, to some world's-wonder in chapel or crypt, + only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some + slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, + and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, + and the sight was never to be? +</p> +<p> + Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride + with which I feel myself, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> Yours ever faithfully, </p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Robert Browning</span>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Miss Barrett,<b><a href="#note-1">1</a></b><br> + +50 Wimpole St.<br> +R. Browning. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 11, 1845. +</p> +<p> + I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant + to give me pleasure by your letter—and even if the object had not + been answered, I ought still to thank you. But it is thoroughly + answered. Such a letter from such a hand! Sympathy is dear—very dear + to me: but the sympathy of a poet, and of such a poet, is the + quintessence of sympathy to me! Will you take back my gratitude for + it?—agreeing, too, that of all the commerce done in the world, from + Tyre to Carthage, the exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most + princely thing! +</p> +<p> + For the rest you draw me on with your kindness. It is difficult to get + rid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure—<i>that</i> + is a fact, and we will not stop for the moral of it. What I was going + to say—after a little natural hesitation—is, that if ever you emerge + without inconvenient effort from your 'passive state,' and will <i>tell</i> + me of such faults as rise to the surface and strike you as important + in my poems, (for of course, I do not think of troubling you with + criticism in detail) you will confer a lasting obligation on me, and + one which I shall value so much, that I covet it at a distance. I do + not pretend to any extraordinary meekness under criticism and it is + possible enough that I might not be altogether obedient to yours. But + with my high respect for your power in your Art and for your + experience as an artist, it would be quite impossible for me to hear a + general observation of yours on what appear to you my master-faults, + without being the better for it hereafter in some way. I ask for only + a sentence or two of general observation—and I do not ask even for + <i>that</i>, so as to tease you—but in the humble, low voice, which is so + excellent a thing in women—particularly when they go a-begging! The + most frequent general criticism I receive, is, I think, upon the + style,—'if I <i>would</i> but change my style'! But <i>that</i> is an objection + (isn't it?) to the writer bodily? Buffon says, and every sincere + writer must feel, that '<i>Le style c'est l'homme</i>'; a fact, however, + scarcely calculated to lessen the objection with certain critics. +</p> +<p> + Is it indeed true that I was so near to the pleasure and honour of + making your acquaintance? and can it be true that you look back upon + the lost opportunity with any regret? <i>But</i>—you know—if you had + entered the 'crypt,' you might have caught cold, or been tired to + death, and <i>wished</i> yourself 'a thousand miles off;' which would have + been worse than travelling them. It is not my interest, however, to + put such thoughts in your head about its being 'all for the best'; and + I would rather hope (as I do) that what I lost by one chance I may + recover by some future one. Winters shut me up as they do dormouse's + eyes; in the spring, <i>we shall see</i>: and I am so much better that I + seem turning round to the outward world again. And in the meantime I + have learnt to know your voice, not merely from the poetry but from + the kindness in it. Mr. Kenyon often speaks of you—dear Mr. + Kenyon!—who most unspeakably, or only speakably with tears in my + eyes,—has been my friend and helper, and my book's friend and helper! + critic and sympathiser, true friend of all hours! You know him well + enough, I think, to understand that I must be grateful to him. +</p> +<p> + I am writing too much,—and notwithstanding that I am writing too + much, I will write of one thing more. I will say that I am your + debtor, not only for this cordial letter and for all the pleasure + which came with it, but in other ways, and those the highest: and I + will say that while I live to follow this divine art of poetry, in + proportion to my love for it and my devotion to it, I must be a devout + admirer and student of your works. This is in my heart to say to + you—and I say it. +</p> +<p> + And, for the rest, I am proud to remain</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> + Your obliged and faithful +</p> + +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Robert Browning, Esq.<br> + + New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.<br> +Jan. 13, 1845. +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Barrett,—I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that + you make me very happy, and that, now the beginning is over, I dare + say I shall do better, because my poor praise, number one, was nearly + as felicitously brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a + personage than Tasso, which I was amused with at Rome some weeks ago, + in a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at + Sant'Onofrio—'Alla cara memoria—di—(please fancy solemn interspaces + and grave capital letters at the new lines) di—Torquato Tasso—il + Dottore Bernardini—offriva—il seguente Carme—<i>O tu</i>'—and no + more,—the good man, it should seem, breaking down with the overload + of love here! But my 'O tu'—was breathed out most sincerely, and now + you have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after. + Only,—and which is why I write now—it looks as if I have introduced + some phrase or other about 'your faults' so cleverly as to give + exactly the opposite meaning to what I meant, which was, that in my + first ardour I had thought to tell you of <i>everything</i> which impressed + me in your verses, down, even, to whatever 'faults' I could find,—a + good earnest, when I had got to <i>them</i>, that I had left out not much + between—as if some Mr. Fellows were to say, in the overflow of his + first enthusiasm of rewarded adventure: 'I will describe you all the + outer life and ways of these Lycians, down to their very + sandal-thongs,' whereto the be-corresponded one rejoins—'Shall I get + next week, then, your dissertation on sandal-thongs'? Yes, and a + little about the 'Olympian Horses,' and God-charioteers as well! +</p> +<p> + What 'struck me as faults,' were not matters on the removal of which, + one was to have—poetry, or high poetry,—but the very highest poetry, + so I thought, and that, to universal recognition. For myself, or any + artist, in many of the cases there would be a positive loss of time, + peculiar artist's pleasure—for an instructed eye loves to see where + the brush has dipped twice in a lustrous colour, has lain insistingly + along a favourite outline, dwelt lovingly in a grand shadow; for these + 'too muches' for the everybody's picture are so many helps to the + making out the real painter's picture as he had it in his brain. And + all of the Titian's Naples Magdalen must have once been golden in its + degree to justify that heap of hair in her hands—the <i>only</i> gold + effected now! +</p> +<p> + But about this soon—for night is drawing on and I go out, yet cannot, + quiet at conscience, till I report (to <i>myself</i>, for I never said it + to you, I think) that your poetry must be, cannot but be, infinitely + more to me than mine to you—for you <i>do</i> what I always wanted, hoped + to do, and only seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak + out, <i>you</i>,—I only make men and women speak—give you truth broken + into prismatic hues, and fear the pure white light, even if it is in + me, but I am going to try; so it will be no small comfort to have your + company just now, seeing that when you have your men and women + aforesaid, you are busied with them, whereas it seems bleak, + melancholy work, this talking to the wind (for I have begun)—yet I + don't think I shall let <i>you</i> hear, after all, the savage things about + Popes and imaginative religions that I must say. +</p> +<p> + See how I go on and on to you, I who, whenever now and then pulled, by + the head and hair, into letter-writing, get sorrowfully on for a line + or two, as the cognate creature urged on by stick and string, and then + come down 'flop' upon the sweet haven of page one, line last, as + serene as the sleep of the virtuous! You will never more, I hope, talk + of 'the honour of my acquaintance,' but I will joyfully wait for the + delight of your friendship, and the spring, and my Chapel-sight after + all!</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> + Ever yours most faithfully,</p> + +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<p> + For Mr. Kenyon—I have a convenient theory about <i>him</i>, and his + otherwise quite unaccountable kindness to me; but 'tis quite night + now, and they call me. +</p> + +<br> + +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 15, 1845. +</p> +<p> + Dear Mr. Browning,—The fault was clearly with me and not with you. +</p> +<p> + When I had an Italian master, years ago, he told me that there was an + unpronounceable English word which absolutely expressed me, and which + he would say in his own tongue, as he could not in mine—'<i>testa + lunga</i>.' Of course, the signor meant <i>headlong</i>!—and now I have had + enough to tame me, and might be expected to stand still in my stall. + But you see I do not. Headlong I was at first, and headlong I + continue—precipitously rushing forward through all manner of nettles + and briars instead of keeping the path; guessing at the meaning of + unknown words instead of looking into the dictionary—tearing open + letters, and never untying a string,—and expecting everything to be + done in a minute, and the thunder to be as quick as the lightning. And + so, at your half word I flew at the whole one, with all its possible + consequences, and wrote what you read. Our common friend, as I think + he is, Mr. Horne, is often forced to entreat me into patience and + coolness of purpose, though his only intercourse with me has been by + letter. And, by the way, you will be sorry to hear that during his + stay in Germany <i>he</i> has been 'headlong' (out of a metaphor) twice; + once, in falling from the Drachenfels, when he only just saved himself + by catching at a vine; and once quite lately, at Christmas, in a fall + on the ice of the Elbe in skating, when he dislocated his left + shoulder in a very painful manner. He is doing quite well, I believe, + but it was sad to have such a shadow from the German Christmas tree, + and he a stranger. +</p> +<p> + In art, however, I understand that it does not do to be headlong, but + patient and laborious—and there is a love strong enough, even in me, to + overcome nature. I apprehend what you mean in the criticism you just + intimate, and shall turn it over and over in my mind until I get practical + good from it. What no mere critic sees, but what you, an artist, know, is + the difference between the thing desired and the thing attained, between the + idea in the writer's mind and the <span title="eidôlon">ειδωλον</span> cast off in his work. All the effort—the quick'ning of the + breath and beating of the heart in pursuit, which is ruffling and + injurious to the general effect of a composition; all which you call + 'insistency,' and which many would call superfluity, and which <i>is</i> + superfluous in a sense—<i>you</i> can pardon, because you understand. The + great chasm between the thing I say, and the thing I would say, would + be quite dispiriting to me, in spite even of such kindnesses as yours, + if the desire did not master the despondency. 'Oh for a horse with + wings!' It is wrong of me to write so of myself—only you put your + finger on the root of a fault, which has, to my fancy, been a little + misapprehended. I do not <i>say everything I think</i> (as has been said of + me by master-critics) but I <i>take every means to say what I think</i>, + which is different!—or I fancy so! +</p> +<p> + In one thing, however, you are wrong. Why should you deny the full + measure of my delight and benefit from your writings? I could tell you + why you should not. You have in your vision two worlds, or to use the + language of the schools of the day, you are both subjective and + objective in the habits of your mind. You can deal both with abstract + thought and with human passion in the most passionate sense. Thus, you + have an immense grasp in Art; and no one at all accustomed to consider + the usual forms of it, could help regarding with reverence and + gladness the gradual expansion of your powers. Then you are + 'masculine' to the height—and I, as a woman, have studied some of + your gestures of language and intonation wistfully, as a thing beyond + me far! and the more admirable for being beyond. +</p> +<p> + Of your new work I hear with delight. How good of you to tell me. And + it is not dramatic in the strict sense, I am to understand—(am I + right in understanding so?) and you speak, in your own person 'to the + winds'? no—but to the thousand living sympathies which will awake to + hear you. A great dramatic power may develop itself otherwise than in + the formal drama; and I have been guilty of wishing, before this hour + (for reasons which I will not thrust upon you after all my tedious + writing), that you would give the public a poem unassociated directly + or indirectly with the stage, for a trial on the popular heart. I + reverence the drama, but— +</p> +<p> + <i>But</i> I break in on myself out of consideration for you. I might have + done it, you will think, before. I vex your 'serene sleep of the + virtuous' like a nightmare. Do not say 'No.' I am <i>sure</i> I do! As to + the vain parlance of the world, I did not talk of the 'honour of your + acquaintance' without a true sense of honour, indeed; but I shall + willingly exchange it all (and <i>now</i>, if you please, at this moment, + for fear of worldly mutabilities) for the 'delight of your + friendship.' +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Believe me, therefore, dear Mr. Browning, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +Faithfully yours, and gratefully, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>. +</p> +<p> + For Mr. Kenyon's kindness, as <i>I</i> see it, no theory will account. I + class it with mesmerism for that reason. +</p> +<br> + +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">New Cross, Hatcham, Monday Night.<br> + [Post-mark, January 28, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Barrett,—Your books lie on my table here, at arm's length + from me, in this old room where I sit all day: and when my head aches + or wanders or strikes work, as it now or then will, I take my chance + for either green-covered volume, as if it were so much fresh trefoil + to feel in one's hands this winter-time,—and round I turn, and, + putting a decisive elbow on three or four half-done-with 'Bells' of + mine, read, read, read, and just as I have shut up the book and walked + to the window, I recollect that you wanted me to find faults there, + and that, in an unwise hour, I engaged to do so. Meantime, the days + go by (the whitethroat is come and sings now) and as I would not have + you 'look down on me from your white heights' as promise breaker, + evader, or forgetter, if I could help: and as, if I am very candid and + contrite, you may find it in your heart to write to me again—who + knows?—I shall say at once that the said faults cannot be lost, must + be <i>somewhere</i>, and shall be faithfully brought you back whenever they + turn up,—as people tell one of missing matters. I am rather exacting, + myself, with my own gentle audience, and get to say spiteful things + about them when they are backward in their dues of appreciation—but + really, <i>really</i>—could I be quite sure that anybody as good as—I + must go on, I suppose, and say—as myself, even, were honestly to feel + towards me as I do, towards the writer of 'Bertha,' and the 'Drama,' + and the 'Duchess,' and the 'Page' and—the whole two volumes, I should + be paid after a fashion, I know. +</p> +<p> + One thing I can do—pencil, if you like, and annotate, and dissertate + upon that I love most and least—I think I can do it, that is. +</p> +<p> + Here an odd memory comes—of a friend who,—volunteering such a + service to a sonnet-writing somebody, gave him a taste of his quality + in a side-column of short criticisms on sonnet the First, and starting + off the beginning three lines with, of course, 'bad, worse, + worst'—made by a generous mintage of words to meet the sudden run of + his epithets, 'worser, worserer, worserest' pay off the second terzet + in full—no 'badder, badderer, badderest' fell to the <i>Second's</i> + allowance, and 'worser' &c. answered the demands of the Third; + 'worster, worsterer, worsterest' supplied the emergency of the Fourth; + and, bestowing his last 'worserestest and worstestest' on lines 13 and + 14, my friend (slapping his forehead like an emptied strong-box) + frankly declared himself bankrupt, and honourably incompetent, to + satisfy the reasonable expectations of the rest of the series! +</p> +<p> + What an illustration of the law by which opposite ideas suggest + opposite, and contrary images come together! +</p> +<p> + See now, how, of that 'Friendship' you offer me (and here Juliet's + word rises to my lips)—I feel sure once and for ever. I have got + already, I see, into this little pet-handwriting of mine (not anyone + else's) which scratches on as if theatrical copyists (ah me!) and + <SPAN class="sc-ex">Bradbury and Evans' Reader</span> were not! But you shall get something + better than this nonsense one day, if you will have patience with + me—hardly better, though, because this does me real good, gives real + relief, to write. After all, you know nothing, next to nothing of me, + and that stops me. Spring is to come, however! +</p> +<p> + If you hate writing to me as I hate writing to nearly everybody, I + pray you never write—if you do, as you say, care for anything I have + done. I will simply assure you, that meaning to begin work in deep + earnest, <i>begin</i> without affectation, God knows,—I do not know what + will help me more than hearing from you,—and therefore, if you do not + so very much hate it, I know I <i>shall</i> hear from you—and very little + more about your 'tiring me.' +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours faithfully, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> + <SPAN class="sc-ex">Robert Browning</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Walpole Street: Feb. 3, 1845.<br> +<i>[Transcriber's Note: So in original. Should be "Wimpole Street."] </i> +</p> +<p> + Why how could I hate to write to you, dear Mr. Browning? Could you + believe in such a thing? If nobody likes writing to everybody (except + such professional letter writers as you and I are <i>not</i>), yet + everybody likes writing to somebody, and it would be strange and + contradictory if I were not always delighted both to hear from <i>you</i> + and to write to <i>you</i>, this talking upon paper being as good a social + pleasure as another, when our means are somewhat straitened. As for + me, I have done most of my talking by post of late years—as people + shut up in dungeons take up with scrawling mottoes on the walls. Not + that I write to many in the way of regular correspondence, as our + friend Mr. Horne predicates of me in his romances (which is mere + romancing!), but that there are a few who will write and be written to + by me without a sense of injury. Dear Miss Mitford, for instance. You + do not know her, I think, personally, although she was the first to + tell me (when I was very ill and insensible to all the glories of the + world except poetry), of the grand scene in 'Pippa Passes.' <i>She</i> has + filled a large drawer in this room with delightful letters, heart-warm + and soul-warm, ... driftings of nature (if sunshine could drift like + snow), and which, if they should ever fall the way of all writing, + into print, would assume the folio shape as a matter of course, and + take rank on the lowest shelf of libraries, with Benedictine editions + of the Fathers, <span title="k.t.l.">κ.τ.λ</span>. I write this to you to show how I can + have pleasure in letters, and never think them too long, nor too + frequent, nor too illegible from being written in little 'pet hands.' + I can read any MS. except the writing on the pyramids. And if you will + only promise to treat me <i>en bon camarade</i>, without reference to the + conventionalities of 'ladies and gentlemen,' taking no thought for + your sentences (nor for mine), nor for your blots (nor for mine), nor + for your blunt speaking (nor for mine), nor for your badd speling (nor + for mine), and if you agree to send me a blotted thought whenever you + are in the mind for it, and with as little ceremony and less + legibility than you would think it necessary to employ towards your + printer—why, <i>then</i>, I am ready to sign and seal the contract, and to + rejoice in being 'articled' as your correspondent. Only <i>don't</i> let us + have any constraint, any ceremony! <i>Don't</i> be civil to me when you + feel rude,—nor loquacious when you incline to silence,—nor yielding + in the manners when you are perverse in the mind. See how out of the + world I am! Suffer me to profit by it in almost the only profitable + circumstance, and let us rest from the bowing and the courtesying, + you and I, on each side. You will find me an honest man on the whole, + if rather hasty and prejudging, which is a different thing from + prejudice at the worst. And we have great sympathies in common, and I + am inclined to look up to you in many things, and to learn as much of + everything as you will teach me. On the other hand you must prepare + yourself to forbear and to forgive—will you? While I throw off the + ceremony, I hold the faster to the kindness. +</p> +<p> + Is it true, as you say, that I 'know so "little"' of you? And is it + true, as others say, that the productions of an artist do not partake + of his real nature, ... that in the minor sense, man is not made in + the image of God? It is <i>not</i> true, to my mind—and therefore it is + not true that I know little of you, except in as far as it is true + (which I believe) that your greatest works are to come. Need I assure + you that I shall always hear with the deepest interest every word you + will say to me of what you are doing or about to do? I hear of the + 'old room' and the '"Bells" lying about,' with an interest which you + may guess at, perhaps. And when you tell me besides, of <i>my poems + being there</i>, and of your caring for them so much beyond the tide-mark + of my hopes, the pleasure rounds itself into a charm, and prevents its + own expression. Overjoyed I am with this cordial sympathy—but it is + better, I feel, to try to justify it by future work than to thank you + for it now. I think—if I may dare to name myself with you in the + poetic relation—that we both have high views of the Art we follow, + and stedfast purpose in the pursuit of it, and that we should not, + either of <i>us</i>, be likely to be thrown from the course, by the casting + of any Atalanta-ball of speedy popularity. But I do not know, I cannot + guess, whether you are liable to be pained deeply by hard criticism + and cold neglect, such as original writers like yourself are too often + exposed to—or whether the love of Art is enough for you, and the + exercise of Art the filling joy of your life. Not that praise must not + always, of necessity, be delightful to the artist, but that it may be + redundant to his content. Do you think so? or not? It appears to me + that poets who, like Keats, are highly susceptible to criticism, must + be jealous, in their own persons, of the future honour of their works. + Because, if a work is worthy, honour must follow it, though the worker + should not live to see that following overtaking. Now, is it not + enough that the work be honoured—enough I mean, for the worker? And + is it not enough to keep down a poet's ordinary wearing anxieties, to + think, that if his work be worthy it will have honour, and, if not, + that 'Sparta must have nobler sons than he'? I am writing nothing + applicable, I see, to anything in question, but when one falls into a + favourite train of thought, one indulges oneself in thinking on. I + began in thinking and wondering what sort of artistic constitution you + had, being determined, as you may observe (with a sarcastic smile at + the impertinence), to set about knowing as much as possible of you + immediately. Then you spoke of your 'gentle audience' (<i>you began</i>), + and I, who know that you have not one but many enthusiastic + admirers—the 'fit and few' in the intense meaning—yet not the + <i>diffused</i> fame which will come to you presently, wrote on, down the + margin of the subject, till I parted from it altogether. But, after + all, we are on the proper matter of sympathy. And after all, and after + all that has been said and mused upon the 'natural ills,' the anxiety, + and wearing out experienced by the true artist,—is not the <i>good</i> + immeasurably greater than the <i>evil</i>? Is it not great good, and great + joy? For my part, I wonder sometimes—I surprise myself wondering—how + without such an object and purpose of life, people find it worth while + to live at all. And, for happiness—why, my only idea of happiness, as + far as my personal enjoyment is concerned, (but I have been + straightened in some respects and in comparison with the majority of + livers!) lies deep in poetry and its associations. And then, the + escape from pangs of heart and bodily weakness—when you throw off + <i>yourself</i>—what you feel to be <i>yourself</i>—into another atmosphere + and into other relations where your life may spread its wings out new, + and gather on every separate plume a brightness from the sun of the + sun! Is it possible that imaginative writers should be so fond of + depreciating and lamenting over their own destiny? Possible, + certainly—but reasonable, not at all—and grateful, less than + anything! +</p> +<p> + My faults, my faults—Shall I help you? Ah—you see them too well, I + fear. And do you know that <i>I</i> also have something of your feeling + about 'being about to <i>begin</i>,' or I should dare to praise you for + having it. But in you, it is different—it is, in you, a virtue. When + Prometheus had recounted a long list of sorrows to be endured by Io, and + declared at last that he was <span title="mêdepô en prooimiois">μηδεπω εν προοιμιοις</span>,<b><a href="#note-2">2</a></b> + poor Io burst out crying. And when the author of 'Paracelsus' and the + 'Bells and Pomegranates' says that he is only 'going to begin' we may + well (to take 'the opposite idea,' as you write) rejoice and clap our + hands. Yet I believe that, whatever you may have done, you <i>will</i> do + what is greater. It is my faith for you. +</p> +<p> + And how I should like to know what poets have been your sponsors, 'to + promise and vow' for you,—and whether you have held true to early + tastes, or leapt violently from them, and what books you read, and + what hours you write in. How curious I could prove myself!—(if it + isn't proved already). +</p> +<p> + But this is too much indeed, past all bearing, I suspect. Well, but if + I ever write to you again—I mean, if you wish it—it may be in the + other extreme of shortness. So do not take me for a born heroine of + Richardson, or think that I sin always to this length, else,—you + might indeed repent your quotation from Juliet—which I guessed at + once—and of course— +</p> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> + I have no joy in this contract to-day!<br> + It is too unadvised, too rash and sudden. +</p> + + + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +<p align="right" style="text-align: right"> + Ever faithfully yours, +</p> + +<p style="text-align: right"> + <SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>. </p> +<br> + +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Hatcham, Tuesday.<br> + [Post-mark, February 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Barrett,—People would hardly ever tell falsehoods about a + matter, if they had been let tell truth in the beginning, for it is + hard to prophane one's very self, and nobody who has, for instance, + used certain words and ways to a mother or a father <i>could</i>, even if + by the devil's help he <i>would</i>, reproduce or mimic them with any + effect to anybody else that was to be won over—and so, if 'I love + you' were always outspoken when it might be, there would, I suppose, + be no fear of its desecration at any after time. But lo! only last + night, I had to write, on the part of Mr. Carlyle, to a certain + ungainly, foolish gentleman who keeps back from him, with all the + fussy impotence of stupidity (not bad feeling, alas! for <i>that</i> we + could deal with) a certain MS. letter of Cromwell's which completes + the collection now going to press; and this long-ears had to be 'dear + Sir'd and obedient servanted' till I <i>said</i> (to use a mild word) + 'commend me to the sincerities of this kind of thing.'! When I spoke + of you knowing little of me, one of the senses in which I meant so was + this—that I would not well vowel-point my common-place letters and + syllables with a masoretic <i>other</i> sound and sense, make my 'dear' + something intenser than 'dears' in ordinary, and 'yours ever' a + thought more significant than the run of its like. And all this came + of your talking of 'tiring me,' 'being too envious,' &c. &c., which I + should never have heard of had the plain truth looked out of my letter + with its unmistakable eyes. <i>Now</i>, what you say of the 'bowing,' and + convention that is to be, and <i>tant de façons</i> that are not to be, + helps me once and for ever—for have I not a right to say simply that, + for reasons I know, for other reasons I don't exactly know, but might + if I chose to think a little, and for still other reasons, which, most + likely, all the choosing and thinking in the world would not make me + know, I had rather hear from you than see anybody else. Never you + care, dear noble Carlyle, nor you, my own friend Alfred over the sea, + nor a troop of true lovers!—Are not their fates written? there! Don't + you answer this, please, but, mind it is on record, and now then, with + a lighter conscience I shall begin replying to your questions. But + then—what I have printed gives <i>no</i> knowledge of me—it evidences + abilities of various kinds, if you will—and a dramatic sympathy with + certain modifications of passion ... <i>that</i> I think—But I never have + begun, even, what I hope I was born to begin and end—'R.B. a + poem'—and next, if I speak (and, God knows, feel), as if what you + have read were sadly imperfect demonstrations of even mere ability, it + is from no absurd vanity, though it might seem so—these scenes and + song-scraps <i>are</i> such mere and very escapes of my inner power, which + lives in me like the light in those crazy Mediterranean phares I have + watched at sea, wherein the light is ever revolving in a dark gallery, + bright and alive, and only after a weary interval leaps out, for a + moment, from the one narrow chink, and then goes on with the blind + wall between it and you; and, no doubt, <i>then</i>, precisely, does the + poor drudge that carries the cresset set himself most busily to trim + the wick—for don't think I want to say I have not worked hard—(this + head of mine knows better)—but the work has been <i>inside</i>, and not + when at stated times I held up my light to you—and, that there is no + self-delusion here, I would prove to you (and nobody else), even by + opening this desk I write on, and showing what stuff, in the way of + wood, I <i>could</i> make a great bonfire with, if I might only knock the + whole clumsy top off my tower! Of course, every writing body says the + same, so I gain nothing by the avowal; but when I remember how I have + done what was published, and half done what may never be, I say with + some right, you can know but little of me. Still, I <i>hope</i> sometimes, + though phrenologists will have it that I <i>cannot</i>, and am doing + better with this darling 'Luria'—so safe in my head, and a tiny slip + of paper I cover with my thumb! +</p> +<p> + Then you inquire about my 'sensitiveness to criticism,' and I shall be + glad to tell you exactly, because I have, more than once, taken a + course you might else not understand. I shall live always—that is for + me—I am living here this 1845, that is for London. I write from a + thorough conviction that it is the duty of me, and with the belief + that, after every drawback and shortcoming, I do my best, all things + considered—that is for <i>me</i>, and, so being, the not being listened to + by one human creature would, I hope, in nowise affect me. But of + course I must, if for merely scientific purposes, know all about this + 1845, its ways and doings, and something I do know, as that for a + dozen cabbages, if I pleased to grow them in the garden here, I might + demand, say, a dozen pence at Covent Garden Market,—and that for a + dozen scenes, of the average goodness, I may challenge as many + plaudits at the theatre close by; and a dozen pages of verse, brought + to the Rialto where verse-merchants most do congregate, ought to bring + me a fair proportion of the Reviewers' gold currency, seeing the other + traders pouch their winnings, as I do see. Well, when they won't pay + me for my cabbages, nor praise me for my poems, I may, if I please, + say 'more's the shame,' and bid both parties 'decamp to the crows,' in + Greek phrase, and <i>yet</i> go very lighthearted back to a garden-full of + rose-trees, and a soul-full of comforts. If they had bought my greens + I should have been able to buy the last number of <i>Punch</i>, and go + through the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge, and give the blind + clarionet-player a trifle, and all without changing my gold. If they + had taken to my books, my father and mother would have been proud of + this and the other 'favourable critique,' and—at least so folks + hold—I should have to pay Mr. Moxon less by a few pounds, + whereas—but you see! Indeed I force myself to say ever and anon, in + the interest of the market-gardeners regular, and Keatses proper, + 'It's nothing to <i>you</i>, critics, hucksters, all of you, if I <i>have</i> + this garden and this conscience—I might go die at Rome, or take to + gin and the newspaper, for what <i>you</i> would care!' So I don't quite + lay open my resources to everybody. But it does so happen, that I have + met with much more than I could have expected in this matter of kindly + and prompt recognition. I never wanted a real set of good hearty + praisers—and no bad reviewers—I am quite content with my share. + No—what I laughed at in my 'gentle audience' is a sad trick the real + admirers have of admiring at the wrong place—enough to make an + apostle swear. <i>That</i> does make me savage—<i>never</i> the other kind of + people; why, think now—take your own 'Drama of Exile' and let <i>me</i> + send it to the first twenty men and women that shall knock at your + door to-day and after—of whom the first five are the Postman, the + seller of cheap sealing-wax, Mr. Hawkins Junr, the Butcher for orders, + and the Tax-gatherer—will you let me, by Cornelius Agrippa's + assistance, force these five and these fellows to read, and report on, + this 'Drama'—and, when I have put these faithful reports into fair + English, do you believe they would be better than, if as good, as, the + general run of Periodical criticisms? Not they, I will venture to + affirm. But then—once again, I get these people together and give + them your book, and persuade them, moreover, that by praising it, the + Postman will be helping its author to divide Long Acre into two beats, + one of which she will take with half the salary and all the red + collar,—that a sealing-wax vendor will see red wafers brought into + vogue, and so on with the rest—and won't you just wish for your + <i>Spectators</i> and <i>Observers</i> and Newcastle-upon-Tyne—Hebdomadal + <i>Mercuries</i> back again! You see the inference—I do sincerely esteem + it a perfectly providential and miraculous thing that they are so + well-behaved in ordinary, these critics; and for Keats and Tennyson to + 'go softly all their days' for a gruff word or two is quite + inexplicable to me, and always has been. Tennyson reads the + <i>Quarterly</i> and does as they bid him, with the most solemn face in the + world—out goes this, in goes that, all is changed and ranged. Oh me! +</p> +<p> + Out comes the sun, in comes the <i>Times</i> and eleven strikes (it <i>does</i>) + already, and I have to go to Town, and I have no alternative but that + this story of the Critic and Poet, 'the Bear and the Fiddle,' should + 'begin but break off in the middle'; yet I doubt—nor will you + henceforth, I know, say, 'I vex you, I am sure, by this lengthy + writing.' Mind that spring is coming, for all this snow; and know me + for yours ever faithfully, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<p> + I don't dare—yet I will—ask <i>can</i> you read this? Because I <i>could</i> + write a little better, but not so fast. Do you keep writing just as + you do now! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Wimpole Street, February 17, 1845. +</p> +<p> + Dear Mr. Browning,—To begin with the end (which is only + characteristic of the perverse like myself), I assure you I read your + handwriting as currently as I could read the clearest type from font. + If I had practised the art of reading your letters all my life, I + couldn't do it better. And then I approve of small MS. upon principle. + Think of what an immense quantity of physical energy must go to the + making of those immense sweeping handwritings achieved by some persons + ... Mr. Landor, for instance, who writes as if he had the sky for a + copybook and dotted his <i>i</i>'s in proportion. People who do such things + should wear gauntlets; yes, and have none to wear; or they wouldn't + waste their time so. People who write—by profession—shall I + say?—never should do it, or what will become of them when most of + their strength retires into their head and heart, (as is the case with + some of us and may be the case with all) and when they have to write a + poem twelve times over, as Mr. Kenyon says I should do if I were + virtuous? Not that I do it. Does anybody do it, I wonder? Do <i>you</i>, + ever? From what you tell me of the trimming of the light, I imagine + not. And besides, one may be laborious as a writer, without copying + twelve times over. I believe there are people who will tell you in a + moment what three times six is, without 'doing it' on their fingers; + and in the same way one may work one's verses in one's head quite as + laboriously as on paper—I maintain it. I consider myself a very + patient, laborious writer—though dear Mr. Kenyon laughs me to scorn + when I say so. And just see how it could be otherwise. If I were + netting a purse I might be thinking of something else and drop my + stitches; or even if I were writing verses to please a popular taste, + I might be careless in it. But the pursuit of an Ideal acknowledged by + the mind, <i>will</i> draw and concentrate the powers of the mind—and Art, + you know, is a jealous god and demands the whole man—or woman. I + cannot conceive of a sincere artist who is also a careless one—though + one may have a quicker hand than another, in general,—and though all + are liable to vicissitudes in the degree of facility—and to + entanglements in the machinery, notwithstanding every degree of + facility. You may write twenty lines one day—or even three like + Euripides in three days—and a hundred lines in one more day—and yet + on the hundred, may have been expended as much good work, as on the + twenty and the three. And also, as you say, the lamp is trimmed behind + the wall—and the act of utterance is the evidence of foregone study + still more than it is the occasion to study. The deep interest with + which I read all that you had the kindness to write to me of yourself, + you must trust me for, as I find it hard to express it. It is sympathy + in one way, and interest every way! And now, see! Although you proved + to me with admirable logic that, for reasons which you know and + reasons which you don't know, I couldn't possibly know anything about + you; though that is all true—and proven (which is better than + true)—I really did understand of you before I was told, exactly what + you told me. Yes, I did indeed. I felt sure that as a poet you fronted + the future—and that your chief works, in your own apprehension, were + to come. Oh—I take no credit of sagacity for it; as I did not long + ago to my sisters and brothers, when I professed to have knowledge of + all their friends whom I never saw in my life, by the image coming + with the name; and threw them into shouts of laughter by giving out + all the blue eyes and black eyes and hazel eyes and noses Roman and + Gothic ticketed aright for the Mr. Smiths and Miss Hawkinses,—and hit + the bull's eye and the true features of the case, ten times out of + twelve! But <i>you</i> are different. <i>You</i> are to be made out by the + comparative anatomy system. You have thrown out fragments of <i>os</i> ... + <i>sublime</i> ... indicative of soul-mammothism—and you live to develop + your nature,—<i>if</i> you live. That is easy and plain. You have taken a + great range—from those high faint notes of the mystics which are + beyond personality ... to dramatic impersonations, gruff with nature, + 'gr-r-r- you swine'; and when these are thrown into harmony, as in a + manner they are in 'Pippa Passes' (which I could find in my heart to + covet the authorship of, more than any of your works—), the + combinations of effect must always be striking and noble—and you must + feel yourself drawn on to such combinations more and more. But I do + not, you say, know yourself—you. I only know abilities and faculties. + Well, then, teach me yourself—you. I will not insist on the + knowledge—and, in fact, you have not written the R.B. poem yet—your + rays fall obliquely rather than directly straight. I see you only in + your moon. Do tell me all of yourself that you can and will ... before + the R.B. poem comes out. And what is 'Luria'? A poem and not a drama? + I mean, a poem not in the dramatic form? Well! I have wondered at you + sometimes, not for daring, but for bearing to trust your noble works + into the great mill of the 'rank, popular' playhouse, to be ground to + pieces between the teeth of vulgar actors and actresses. I, for one, + would as soon have 'my soul among lions.' 'There is a fascination in + it,' says Miss Mitford, and I am sure there must be, to account for + it. Publics in the mass are bad enough; but to distil the dregs of the + public and baptise oneself in that acrid moisture, where can be the + temptation? I could swear by Shakespeare, as was once sworn 'by those + dead at Marathon,' that I do not see where. I love the drama too. I + look to our old dramatists as to our Kings and princes in poetry. I + love them through all the deeps of their abominations. But the theatre + in those days was a better medium between the people and the poet; and + the press in those days was a less sufficient medium than now. Still, + the poet suffered by the theatre even then; and the reasons are very + obvious. +</p> +<p> + How true—how true ... is all you say about critics. My convictions + follow you in every word. And I delighted to read your views of the + poet's right aspect towards criticism—I read them with the most + complete appreciation and sympathy. I have sometimes thought that it + would be a curious and instructive process, as illustrative of the + wisdom and apprehensiveness of critics, if anyone would collect the + critical soliloquies of every age touching its own literature, (as far + as such may be extant) and <i>confer</i> them with the literary product of + the said ages. Professor Wilson has begun something of the kind + apparently, in his initiatory paper of the last <i>Blackwood</i> number on + critics, beginning with Dryden—but he seems to have no design in his + notice—it is a mere critique on the critic. And then, he should have + begun earlier than Dryden—earlier even than Sir Philip Sydney, who in + the noble 'Discourse on Poetry,' gives such singular evidence of being + stone-critic-blind to the gods who moved around him. As far as I can + remember, he saw even Shakespeare but indifferently. Oh, it was in his + eyes quite an unillumed age, that period of Elizabeth which <i>we</i> see + full of suns! and few can see what is close to the eyes though they + run their heads against it; the denial of contemporary genius is the + rule rather than the exception. No one counts the eagles in the nest, + till there is a rush of wings; and lo! they are flown. And here we + speak of understanding men, such as the Sydneys and the Drydens. Of + the great body of critics you observe rightly, that they are better + than might be expected of their badness, only the fact of their + <i>influence</i> is no less undeniable than the reason why they should not + be influential. The brazen kettles will be taken for oracles all the + world over. But the influence is for to-day, for this hour—not for + to-morrow and the day after—unless indeed, as you say, the poet do + himself perpetuate the influence by submitting to it. Do you know + Tennyson?—that is, with a face to face knowledge? I have great + admiration for him. In execution, he is exquisite,—and, in music, a + most subtle weigher out to the ear of fine airs. That such a poet + should submit blindly to the suggestions of his critics, (I do not say + that suggestions from without may not be accepted with discrimination + sometimes, to the benefit of the acceptor), blindly and implicitly to + the suggestions of his critics, is much as if Babbage were to take my + opinion and undo his calculating machine by it. Napoleon called poetry + <i>science creuse</i>—which, although he was not scientific in poetry + himself, is true enough. But anybody is qualified, according to + everybody, for giving opinions upon poetry. It is not so in chymistry + and mathematics. Nor is it so, I believe, in whist and the polka. But + then these are more serious things. +</p> +<p> + Yes—and it does delight me to hear of your garden full of roses and + soul full of comforts! You have the right to both—you have the key to + both. You have written enough to live by, though only beginning to + write, as you say of yourself. And this reminds me to remind you that + when I talked of coveting most the authorship of your 'Pippa,' I did + not mean to call it your finest work (you might reproach me for + <i>that</i>), but just to express a personal feeling. Do you know what it + is to covet your neighbour's poetry?—not his fame, but his poetry?—I + dare say not. You are too generous. And, in fact, beauty is beauty, + and, whether it comes by our own hand or another's, blessed be the + coming of it! <i>I</i>, besides, feel <i>that</i>. And yet—and yet, I have been + aware of a feeling within me which has spoken two or three times to + the effect of a wish, that I had been visited with the vision of + 'Pippa,' before you—and <i>confiteor tibi</i>—I confess the baseness of + it. The conception is, to my mind, most exquisite and altogether + original—and the contrast in the working out of the plan, singularly + expressive of various faculty. +</p> +<p> + Is the poem under your thumb, emerging from it? and in what metre? May + I ask such questions? +</p> +<p> + And does Mr. Carlyle tell you that he has forbidden all 'singing' to + this perverse and froward generation, which should work and not sing? + And have you told Mr. Carlyle that song is work, and also the + condition of work? I am a devout sitter at his feet—and it is an + effort to me to think him wrong in anything—and once when he told me + to write prose and not verse, I fancied that his opinion was I had + mistaken my calling,—a fancy which in infinite kindness and + gentleness he stooped immediately to correct. I never shall forget the + grace of that kindness—but then! For <i>him</i> to have thought ill of + <i>me</i>, would not have been strange—I often think ill of myself, as God + knows. But for Carlyle to think of putting away, even for a season, + the poetry of the world, was wonderful, and has left me ruffled in my + thoughts ever since. I do not know him personally at all. But as his + disciple I ventured (by an exceptional motive) to send him my poems, + and I heard from him as a consequence. 'Dear and noble' he is + indeed—and a poet unaware of himself; all but the sense of music. You + feel it so—do you not? And the 'dear sir' has let him have the + 'letter of Cromwell,' I hope; and satisfied 'the obedient servant.' + The curious thing in this world is not the stupidity, but the + upper-handism of the stupidity. The geese are in the Capitol, and the + Romans in the farmyard—and it seems all quite natural that it should + be so, both to geese and Romans! +</p> +<p> + But there are things you say, which seem to me supernatural, for + reasons which I know and for reasons which I don't know. You will let + me be grateful to you,—will you not? You must, if you will or not. + And also—I would not wait for more leave—if I could but see your + desk—as I do your death's heads and the spider-webs appertaining; but + the soul of Cornelius Agrippa fades from me. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever faithfully yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>.</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning—Spring!<br> +[Post-mark, February 26, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Real warm Spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know it; and in + Spring I shall see you, surely see you—for when did I once fail to + get whatever I had set my heart upon? As I ask myself sometimes, with + a strange fear. +</p> +<p> + I took up this paper to write a great deal—now, I don't think I shall + write much—'I shall see you,' I say! +</p> +<p> + That 'Luria' you enquire about, shall be my last play—for it is but a + play, woe's me! I have one done here, 'A Soul's Tragedy,' as it is + properly enough called, but <i>that</i> would not do to end with (end I + will), and Luria is a Moor, of Othello's country, and devotes himself + to something he thinks Florence, and the old fortune follows—all in + my brain yet, but the bright weather helps and I will soon loosen my + Braccio and Puccio (a pale discontented man), and Tiburzio (the Pisan, + good true fellow, this one), and Domizia the Lady—loosen all these on + dear foolish (ravishing must his folly be), golden-hearted Luria, all + these with their worldly-wisdom and Tuscan shrewd ways; and, for me, + the misfortune is, I sympathise just as much with these as with + him,—so there can no good come of keeping this wild company any + longer, and 'Luria' and the other sadder ruin of one Chiappino—these + got rid of, I will do as you bid me, and—say first I have some + Romances and Lyrics, all dramatic, to dispatch, and <i>then</i>, I shall + stoop of a sudden under and out of this dancing ring of men and women + hand in hand, and stand still awhile, should my eyes dazzle, and when + that's over, they will be gone and you will be there, <i>pas vrai</i>? For, + as I think I told you, I always shiver involuntarily when I look—no, + glance—at this First Poem of mine to be. '<i>Now</i>,' I call it, what, + upon my soul,—for a solemn matter it is,—what is to be done <i>now</i>, + believed <i>now</i>, so far as it has been revealed to me—solemn words, + truly—and to find myself writing them to any one else! Enough now. +</p> +<p> + I know Tennyson 'face to face,'—no more than that. I know Carlyle and + love him—know him so well, that I would have told you he had shaken + that grand head of his at 'singing,' so thoroughly does he love and + live by it. When I last saw him, a fortnight ago, he turned, from I + don't know what other talk, quite abruptly on me with, 'Did you never + try to write a <i>Song</i>? Of all things in the world, <i>that</i> I should be + proudest to do.' Then came his definition of a song—then, with an + appealing look to Mrs. C., 'I always say that some day in <i>spite of + nature and my stars</i>, I shall burst into a song' (he is not + mechanically 'musical,' he meant, and the music is the poetry, he + holds, and should enwrap the thought as Donne says 'an amber-drop + enwraps a bee'), and then he began to recite an old Scotch song, + stopping at the first rude couplet, 'The beginning words are merely to + set the tune, they tell me'—and then again at the couplet about—or, + to the effect that—'give me' (but in broad Scotch) 'give me but my + lass, I care not for my cogie.' '<i>He says</i>,' quoth Carlyle + magisterially, 'that if you allow him the love of his lass, you may + take away all else, even his cogie, his cup or can, and he cares not,' + just as a professor expounds Lycophron. And just before I left + England, six months ago, did not I hear him croon, if not certainly + sing, 'Charlie is my darling' ('my <i>darling</i>' with an adoring + emphasis), and then he stood back, as it were, from the song, to look + at it better, and said 'How must that notion of ideal wondrous + perfection have impressed itself in this old Jacobite's "young + Cavalier"—("They go to save their land, and the <i>young + Cavalier</i>!!")—when I who care nothing about such a rag of a man, + cannot but feel as he felt, in speaking his words after him!' After + saying which, he would be sure to counsel everybody to get their heads + clear of all singing! Don't let me forget to clap hands, we got the + letter, dearly bought as it was by the 'Dear Sirs,' &c., and + insignificant scrap as it proved, but still it is got, to my + encouragement in diplomacy. +</p> +<p> + Who told you of my sculls and spider webs—Horne? Last year I petted + extraordinarily a fine fellow, (a <i>garden</i> spider—there was the + singularity,—the thin clever-even-for-a-spider-sort, and they are + <i>so</i> 'spirited and sly,' all of them—this kind makes a long cone of + web, with a square chamber of vantage at the end, and there he sits + loosely and looks about), a great fellow that housed himself, with + real gusto, in the jaws of a great scull, whence he watched me as I + wrote, and I remember speaking to Horne about his good points. + Phrenologists look gravely at that great scull, by the way, and hope, + in their grim manner, that its owner made a good end. He looks + quietly, now, out at the green little hill behind. I have no little + insight to the feelings of furniture, and treat books and prints with + a reasonable consideration. How some people use their pictures, for + instance, is a mystery to me; very revolting all the same—portraits + obliged to face each other for ever,—prints put together in + portfolios. My Polidoro's perfect Andromeda along with 'Boors + Carousing,' by Ostade,—where I found her,—my own father's doing, or + I would say more. +</p> +<p> + And when I have said I like 'Pippa' better than anything else I have + done yet, I shall have answered all you bade me. And now may <i>I</i> + begin questioning? No,—for it is all a pure delight to me, so that + you do but write. I never was without good, kind, generous friends and + lovers, so they say—so they were and are,—perhaps they came at the + wrong time—I never wanted them—though that makes no difference in my + gratitude I trust,—but I know myself—surely—and always have done + so, for is there not somewhere the little book I first printed when a + boy, with John Mill, the metaphysical head, <i>his</i> marginal note that + 'the writer possesses a deeper self-consciousness than I ever knew in + a sane human being.' So I never deceived myself much, nor called my + feelings for people other than they were. And who has a right to say, + if I have not, that I had, but I said that, supernatural or no. Pray + tell me, too, of your present doings and projects, and never write + yourself 'grateful' to me, who <i>am</i> grateful, very grateful to + you,—for none of your words but I take in earnest—and tell me if + Spring <i>be not</i> coming, come, and I will take to writing the gravest + of letters, because this beginning is for gladness' sake, like + Carlyle's song couplet. My head aches a little to-day too, and, as + poor dear Kirke White said to the moon, from his heap of mathematical + papers, +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">'I throw aside the learned sheet;<br> +I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so—mildly sweet.' +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p> + Out on the foolish phrase, but there's hard rhyming without it. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours faithfully, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Robert Browning</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Wimpole Street: Feb. 27, 1845. +</p> +<p> + Yes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring according to the new + 'style' (mine), and not the old one of you and the rest of the poets. + To me unhappily, the snowdrop is much the same as the snow—it feels + as cold underfoot—and I have grown sceptical about 'the voice of the + turtle,' the east winds blow so loud. April is a Parthian with a dart, + and May (at least the early part of it) a spy in the camp. <i>That</i> is + my idea of what you call spring; mine, in the <i>new style</i>! A little + later comes my spring; and indeed after such severe weather, from + which I have just escaped with my life, I may thank it for coming at + all. How happy you are, to be able to listen to the 'birds' without + the commentary of the east wind, which, like other commentaries, + spoils the music. And how happy I am to listen to you, when you write + such kind open-hearted letters to me! I am delighted to hear all you + say to me of yourself, and 'Luria,' and the spider, and to do him no + dishonour in the association, of the great teacher of the age, + Carlyle, who is also yours and mine. He fills the office of a + poet—does he not?—by analysing humanity back into its elements, to + the destruction of the conventions of the hour. That is—strictly + speaking—the office of the poet, is it not?—and he discharges it + fully, and with a wider intelligibility perhaps as far as the + contemporary period is concerned, than if he did forthwith 'burst into + a song.' +</p> +<p> + But how I do wander!—I meant to say, and I will call myself back to + say, that spring will really come some day I hope and believe, and the + warm settled weather with it, and that then I shall be probably fitter + for certain pleasures than I can appear even to myself now. +</p> +<p> + And, in the meantime, I seem to see 'Luria' instead of you; I have + visions and dream dreams. And the 'Soul's Tragedy,' which sounds to me + like the step of a ghost of an old Drama! and you are not to think + that I blaspheme the Drama, dear Mr. Browning; or that I ever thought + of exhorting you to give up the 'solemn robes' and tread of the + buskin. It is the theatre which vulgarises these things; the modern + theatre in which we see no altar! where the thymelé is replaced by the + caprice of a popular actor. And also, I have a fancy that your great + dramatic power would work more clearly and audibly in the less + definite mould—but you ride your own faculty as Oceanus did his + sea-horse, 'directing it by your will'; and woe to the impertinence, + which would dare to say 'turn this way' or 'turn from that way'—it + should not be <i>my</i> impertinence. Do not think I blaspheme the Drama. I + have gone through 'all such reading as should never be read' (that is, + by women!), through my love of it on the contrary. And the dramatic + faculty is strong in you—and therefore, as 'I speak unto a wise man, + judge what I say.' +</p> +<p> + For myself and my own doings, you shall hear directly what I have been + doing, and what I am about to do. Some years ago, as perhaps you may + have heard, (but I hope not, for the fewer who hear of it the + better)—some years ago, I translated or rather <i>undid</i> into English, + the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus. To speak of this production moderately + (not modestly), it is the most miserable of all miserable versions of + the class. It was completed (in the first place) in thirteen days—the + iambics thrown into blank verse, the lyrics into rhymed octosyllabics + and the like,—and the whole together as cold as Caucasus, and as flat + as the nearest plain. To account for this, the haste may be something; + but if my mind had been properly awakened at the time, I might have + made still more haste and done it better. Well,—the comfort is, that + the little book was unadvertised and unknown, and that most of the + copies (through my entreaty of my father) are shut up in the wardrobe + of his bedroom. If ever I get well I shall show my joy by making a + bonfire of them. In the meantime, the recollection of this sin of mine + has been my nightmare and daymare too, and the sin has been the 'Blot + on my escutcheon.' I could look in nobody's face, with a 'Thou canst + not say I did it'—I know, I did it. And so I resolved to wash away + the transgression, and translate the tragedy over again. It was an + honest straightforward proof of repentance—was it not? and I have + completed it, except the transcription and last polishing. If + Æschylus stands at the foot of my bed now, I shall have a little + breath to front him. I have done my duty by him, not indeed according + to his claims, but in proportion to my faculty. Whether I shall ever + publish or not (remember) remains to be considered—that is a + different side of the subject. If I do, it <i>may</i> be in a + magazine—or—but this is another ground. And then, I have in my head + to associate with the version, a monodrama of my own,—not a long + poem, but a monologue of Æschylus as he sate a blind exile on the + flats of Sicily and recounted the past to his own soul, just before + the eagle cracked his great massy skull with a stone. +</p> +<p> + But my chief <i>intention</i> just now is the writing of a sort of + novel-poem—a poem as completely modern as 'Geraldine's Courtship,' + running into the midst of our conventions, and rushing into + drawing-rooms and the like, 'where angels fear to tread'; and so, + meeting face to face and without mask the Humanity of the age, and + speaking the truth as I conceive of it out plainly. That is my + intention. It is not mature enough yet to be called a plan. I am + waiting for a story, and I won't take one, because I want to make one, + and I like to make my own stories, because then I can take liberties + with them in the treatment. +</p> +<p> + Who told me of your skulls and spiders? Why, couldn't I know it + without being told? Did Cornelius Agrippa know nothing without being + told? Mr. Horne never spoke it to my ears—(I never saw him face to + face in my life, although we have corresponded for long and long), and + he never wrote it to my eyes. Perhaps he does not know that I know it. + Well, then! if I were to say that <i>I heard it from you yourself</i>, how + would you answer? <i>And it was so.</i> Why, are you not aware that these + are the days of mesmerism and clairvoyance? Are you an infidel? I have + believed in your skulls for the last year, for my part. +</p> +<p> + And I have some sympathy in your habit of feeling for chairs and + tables. I remember, when I was a child and wrote poems in little + clasped books, I used to kiss the books and put them away tenderly + because I had been happy near them, and take them out by turns when I + was going from home, to cheer them by the change of air and the + pleasure of the new place. This, not for the sake of the verses + written in them, and not for the sake of writing more verses in them, + but from pure gratitude. Other books I used to treat in a like + manner—and to talk to the trees and the flowers, was a natural + inclination—but between me and that time, the cypresses grow thick + and dark. +</p> +<p> + Is it true that your wishes fulfil themselves? And when they <i>do</i>, are + they not bitter to your taste—do you not wish them <i>un</i>fulfilled? Oh, + this life, this life! There is comfort in it, they say, and I almost + believe—but the brightest place in the house, is the leaning out of + the window—at least, for me. +</p> +<p> + Of course you are <i>self-conscious</i>—How could you be a poet otherwise? + Tell me. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever faithfully yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +E.B.B. +</p> + +<p> + And was the little book written with Mr. Mill, pure metaphysics, or + what? +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Night, March 1 [1845]. +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Barrett,—I seem to find of a sudden—surely I knew + before—anyhow, I <i>do</i> find now, that with the octaves on octaves of + quite new golden strings you enlarged the compass of my life's harp + with, there is added, too, such a tragic chord, that which you + touched, so gently, in the beginning of your letter I got this + morning, 'just escaping' &c. But if my truest heart's wishes avail, as + they have hitherto done, you shall laugh at East winds yet, as I do! + See now, this sad feeling is so strange to me, that I must write it + out, <i>must</i>, and you might give me great, the greatest pleasure for + years and yet find me as passive as a stone used to wine libations, + and as ready in expressing my sense of them, but when I am pained, I + find the old theory of the uselessness of communicating the + circumstances of it, singularly untenable. I have been 'spoiled' in + this world—to such an extent, indeed, that I often <i>reason</i> out—make + clear to myself—that I might very properly, so far as myself am + concerned, take any step that would peril the whole of my future + happiness—because the past is gained, secure, and on record; and, + though not another of the old days should dawn on me, I shall not have + lost my life, no! Out of all which you are—please—to make a sort of + sense, if you can, so as to express that I have been deeply struck to + find a new real unmistakable sorrow along with these as real but not + so new joys you have given me. How strangely this connects itself in + my mind with another subject in your note! I looked at that + translation for a minute, not longer, years ago, knowing nothing about + it or you, and I <i>only</i> looked to see what rendering a passage had + received that was often in my thoughts.<a href="#note-3"><b><u>3</u></b></a> I forget your version (it + was not <i>yours</i>, my <i>'yours' then</i>; I mean I had no extraordinary + interest about it), but the original makes Prometheus (telling over + his bestowments towards human happiness) say, as something <span title="peraiterô tônde">περαιτερω τωνδε</span>, + that he stopped mortals <span title="mê proderkesthai moron--to poion eurôn">μη προδερκεσθαι μορον—το ποιον ευρων</span>, asks the Chorus, + <span title="têsde pharmakon nosou">τησδε φαρμακον νοσου</span>? + Whereto he replies, <span title="tuphlas en autois elpidas katôkisa"> + τυφλας εν αυτοις ελπιδας κατωκισα</span> + (what you hear men dissertate upon by the hour, as proving + the immortality of the soul apart from revelation, undying yearnings, + restless longings, instinctive desires which, unless to be eventually + indulged, it were cruel to plant in us, &c. &c.). But, + <span title="meg' ôphelêma tout' edôrêsô brotois">μεγ' ωφελημα τουτ' εδωρησω βροτοις</span>! concludes the chorus, like a sigh + from the admitted Eleusinian Æschylus was! You cannot think how this + foolish circumstance struck me this evening, so I thought I would e'en + tell you at once and be done with it. Are you not my dear friend + already, and shall I not use you? And pray you not to 'lean out of the + window' when my own foot is only on the stair; do wait a little for +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours <i>ever</i>, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">March 5, 1845. +</p> +<p> + But I did not mean to strike a 'tragic chord'; indeed I did not! + Sometimes one's melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one's + mirth,—the world goes round, you know—and I suppose that in that + letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to 'escaping with my + life,' it was just a phrase—at least it did not signify more than + that the sense of mortality, and discomfort of it, is peculiarly + strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For + the rest, I am <i>essentially better</i>, and have been for several + winters; and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die, + and I am reconciled to the feeling. Yes! I am satisfied to 'take up' + with the blind hopes again, and have them in the house with me, for + all that I sit by the window. By the way, did the chorus utter scorn + in the <span title="meg' ôphelêma">μεγ' ωφελημα</span>. I think not. It is well to fly towards + the light, even where there may be some fluttering and bruising of + wings against the windowpanes, is it not? +</p> +<p> + There is an obscurer passage, on which I covet your thoughts, where + Prometheus, after the sublime declaration that, with a full knowledge + of the penalty reserved for him, he had sinned of free will and + choice—goes on to say—or to seem to say—that he had <i>not</i>, however, + foreseen the extent and detail of the torment, the skiey rocks, and + the friendless desolation. See v. 275. The intention of the poet + might have been to magnify to his audience the torment of the + martyrdom—but the heroism of the martyr diminishes in proportion—and + there appears to be a contradiction, and oversight. Or is my view + wrong? Tell me. And tell me too, if Æschylus not the divinest of all + the divine Greek souls? People say after Quintilian, that he is savage + and rude; a sort of poetic Orson, with his locks all wild. But I will + not hear it of my master! He is strong as Zeus is—and not as a + boxer—and tender as Power itself, which always is tenderest. +</p> +<p> + But to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes; you are not + to think—whatever I may have written or implied—that I lean either + to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through + darkness instead of light, and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may God + forbid that it should be so with me. I am not desponding by nature, + and after a course of bitter mental discipline and long bodily + seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and + oftener feel),—the wisdom of cheerfulness—and the duty of social + intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in + society; it has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And + altogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in + proportion to my own deprivations. The laburnum trees and rose trees + are plucked up by the roots—but the sunshine is in their places, and + the root of the sunshine is above the storms. What we call Life is a + condition of the soul, and the soul must improve in happiness and + wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these + faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement. +</p> +<p> + And I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to <i>happiness</i>, and I + feel it to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one. + Still, it is obvious too that you have been spared, up to this time, + the great natural afflictions, against which we are nearly all called, + sooner or later, to struggle and wrestle—or your step would not be + 'on the stair' quite so lightly. And so, we turn to you, dear Mr. + Browning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe + your unscathed joy to God, you should pay it back to His world. And I + thank you for some of it already. +</p> +<p> + Also, writing as from friend to friend—as you say rightly that we + are—I ought to confess that of one class of griefs (which has been + called too the bitterest), I know as little as you. The cruelty of the + world, and the treason of it—the unworthiness of the dearest; of + these griefs I have scanty knowledge. It seems to me from my personal + experience that there is kindness everywhere in different proportions, + and more goodness and tenderheartedness than we read of in the + moralists. People have been kind to <i>me</i>, even without understanding + me, and pitiful to me, without approving of me:—nay, have not the + very critics tamed their beardom for me, and roared delicately as + sucking doves, on behalf of me? I have no harm to say of your world, + though I am not of it, as you see. And I have the cream of it in your + friendship, and a little more, and I do not envy much the milkers of + the cows. +</p> +<p> + How kind you are!—how kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things + you say are very touching, and some, surprising; and although I am + aware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it + is delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Faithfully yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> + [Post-mark, March 12, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Your letter made me so happy, dear Miss Barrett, that I have kept + quiet this while; is it too great a shame if I begin to want more + good news of you, and to say so? Because there has been a bitter wind + ever since. Will you grant me a great favour? Always when you write, + though about your own works, not Greek plays merely, put me in, + <i>always</i>, a little official bulletin-line that shall say 'I am better' + or 'still better,' will you? That is done, then—and now, what do I + wish to tell you first? The poem you propose to make, for the times; + the fearless fresh living work you describe, is the <i>only</i> Poem to be + undertaken now by you or anyone that <i>is</i> a Poet at all; the only + reality, only effective piece of service to be rendered God and man; + it is what I have been all my life intending to do, and now shall be + much, much nearer doing, since you will along with me. And you <i>can</i> + do it, I know and am sure—so sure, that I could find in my heart to + be jealous of your stopping in the way even to translate the + Prometheus; though the accompanying monologue will make amends too. Or + shall I set you a task I meant for myself once upon a time?—which, + oh, how you would fulfil! Restore the Prometheus <span title="purphoros">πυρφορος</span> as + Shelley did the <span title="Lyomenos">Λυομενος</span>; when I say 'restore,' I know, or + very much fear, that the <span title="purphoros">πυρφορος</span> was the same with the + <span title="purkaeus">πυρκαευς</span> which, by a fragment, we sorrowfully ascertain to + have been a Satyric Drama; but surely the capabilities of the subject + are much greater than in this, we now wonder at; nay, they include all + those of this last—for just see how magnificently the story unrolls + itself. The beginning of Jupiter's dynasty, the calm in Heaven after + the storm, the ascending—(stop, I will get the book and give the + words), <span title="opôs tachista ton patrôon eis thronon kathezet', euthus daimosin nemei gera alloisin alla--k.t.l.">οπως ταχιστα τον πατρωον εις θρονον καθεζετ', ευθυς δαιμοσιν νεμει γερα αλλοισιν αλλα—κ.τ.λ.</span>,<u><b><a href="#note-4">4</a></b></u> all the while + Prometheus being the first among the first in honour, as + <span title="kaitoi theoisi tois neois toutois gera tis allos, ê 'gô, pantelôs diôrise">καιτοι θεοισι τοις νεοις τουτοις γερα τις αλλος, η 'γω, παντελως διωρισε</span>?<u><b><a href="#note-5">5</a></b></u> + then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous + blue and gold everywhere, <span title="brotôn de tôn talaipôrôn logon ouk eschen oudena">βροτων δε των ταλαιπωρων λογον ουκ εσχεν ουδενα</span>,<u><b><a href="#note-6">6</a></b></u> and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race, + and plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand solitary + <span title="egô d' etolmêsa">εγω δ' ετολμησα</span>,<u><b><a href="#note-7">7</a></b></u> and his saving them, as the <i>first</i> good, from + annihilation. <a name="39"></a>Then comes the darkening brow of Zeus, and estrangement + from the benign circle of grateful gods, and the dissuasion of old + confederates, and all the Right that one may fancy in Might, the + strongest reasons <span title="pauesthai tropou philanthrôpou">παυεσθαι τροπου φιλανθρωπου</span><u><b><a href="#note-8">8</a></b></u> coming + from the own mind of the Titan, if you will, and all the while he + shall be proceeding steadily in the alleviation of the sufferings of + mortals whom, <span title="nêpious ontas to prin, ennous kai phrenôn epêbolous ethêke">νηπιους οντας το πριν, εννους και φρενων επηβολους εθηκε</span>,<u><b><a href="#note-9">9</a></b></u> while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is + about to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more distinctly, + till at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of man, body (by the + gift of fire) and soul (by even those <span title="tuphlai elpides">τυφλαι ελπιδες</span>,<u><b><a href="#note-10">10</a></b></u> + hopes of immortality), and so having rendered him utterly, according + to the mythos here, <i>independent</i> of Jove—for observe, Prometheus in + the play never talks of helping mortals more, of fearing for them + more, of even benefiting them more by his sufferings. The rest is + between Jove and himself; he will reveal the master-secret to Jove + when he shall have released him, &c. There is no stipulation that the + gifts to mortals shall be continued; indeed, by the fact that it is + Prometheus who hangs on Caucasus while 'the ephemerals possess fire,' + one sees that somehow mysteriously <i>they</i> are past Jove's harming now. + Well, this wholly achieved, the price is as wholly accepted, and off + into the darkness passes in calm triumphant grandeur the Titan, with + Strength and Violence, and Vulcan's silent and downcast eyes, and then + the gold clouds and renewed flushings of felicity shut up the scene + again, with Might in his old throne again, yet with a new element of + mistrust, and conscious shame, and fear, that writes significantly + enough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is not as it was, + nor will ever be. Such might be the framework of your Drama, just what + cannot help striking one at first glance, and would not such a Drama + go well before your translation? Do think of this and tell me—it + nearly writes itself. You see, I meant the <span title="meg' ôphelêma">μεγ' ωφελημα</span><u><b><a href="#note-11">11</a></b></u> + to be a deep great truth; if there were no life beyond this, I think + the hope in one would be an incalculable blessing <i>for</i> this life, + which is melancholy for one like Æschylus to feel, if he could <i>only</i> + hope, because the argument as to the ulterior good of those hopes is + cut clean away, and what had he left? +</p> +<p> + I do not find it take away from my feeling of the magnanimity of + Prometheus that he should, in truth, complain (as he does from + beginning to end) of what he finds himself suffering. He could have + prevented all, and can stop it now—of that he never thinks for a + moment. That was the old Greek way—they never let an antagonistic + passion neutralise the other which was to influence the man to his + praise or blame. A Greek hero fears exceedingly and battles it out, + cries out when he is wounded and fights on, does not say his love or + hate makes him see no danger or feel no pain. Æschylus from first word + to last (<span title="idesthe me, oia paschô">ιδεσθε με, οια πασχω</span><b><a href="#note-12">12</a></b> + to <span title="esoras me, hôs ekdika paschô"> + εσορας με, ως + +εκδικα πασχω</span><b><a href="#note-13">13</a></b>) insists on the unmitigated reality of the + punishment which only the sun, and divine ether, and the godhead of + his mother can comprehend; still, still that is only what I suppose + Æschylus to have done—in your poem you shall make Prometheus our way. +</p> +<p> + And now enough of Greek, which I am fast forgetting (for I never look + at books I loved once)—it was your mention of the translation that + brought out the old fast fading outlines of the Poem in my brain—the + Greek poem, that is. You think—for I must get to <i>you</i>—that I + 'unconsciously exaggerate what you are to me.' Now, you don't know + what <i>that</i> is, nor can I very well tell you, because the language + with which I talk to myself of these matters is spiritual Attic, and + 'loves contractions,' as grammarians say; but I read it myself, and + well know what it means, that's why I told you I was self-conscious—I + meant that I never yet mistook my own feelings, one for + another—there! Of what use is talking? Only do you stay here with me + in the 'House' these few short years. Do you think I shall see you in + two months, three months? I may travel, perhaps. So you have got to + like society, and would enjoy it, you think? For me, I always hated + it—have put up with it these six or seven years past, lest by + foregoing it I should let some unknown good escape me, in the true + time of it, and only discover my fault when too late; and now that I + have done most of what is to be done, <i>any</i> lodge in a garden of + cucumbers for me! I don't even care about reading now—the world, and + pictures of it, rather than writings about the world! But you must + read books in order to get words and forms for 'the public' if you + <i>write</i>, and <i>that</i> you needs must do, if you fear God. I have no + pleasure in writing myself—none, in the mere act—though all pleasure + in the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real + best, judge how heart-breaking a matter must it be to be pronounced a + poor creature by critic this and acquaintance the other! But I think + you like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or + making music, do you not? After all, there is a great delight in the + heart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all + times to set to work—but—I don't know why—my heart sinks whenever I + open this desk, and rises when I shut it. Yet but for what I have + written you would never have heard of me—and <i>through</i> what you have + written, not properly <i>for</i> it, I love and wish you well! Now, will + you remember what I began my letter by saying—how you have promised + to let me know if my wishing takes effect, and if you still continue + better? And not even ... (since we are learned in magnanimity) don't + even tell me that or anything else, if it teases you,—but wait your + own good time, and know me for ... if these words were but my own, and + fresh-minted for this moment's use!... +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours ever faithfully, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<br> + +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">50 Wimpole Street: March 20, 1845. +</p> +<p> + Whenever I delay to write to you, dear Mr. Browning, it is not, be + sure, that I take my 'own good time,' but submit to my own bad time. + It was kind of you to wish to know how I was, and not unkind of me to + suspend my answer to your question—for indeed I have not been very + well, nor have had much heart for saying so. This implacable weather! + this east wind that seems to blow through the sun and moon! who can be + well in such a wind? Yet for me, I should not grumble. There has been + nothing very bad the matter with me, as there used to be—I only grow + weaker than usual, and learn my lesson of being mortal, in a + corner—and then all this must end! April is coming. There will be + both a May and a June if we live to see such things, and perhaps, + after all, we may. And as to seeing <i>you</i> besides, I observe that you + distrust me, and that perhaps you penetrate my morbidity and guess how + when the moment comes to see a living human face to which I am not + accustomed, I shrink and grow pale in the spirit. Do you? You are + learned in human nature, and you know the consequences of leading such + a secluded life as mine—notwithstanding all my fine philosophy about + social duties and the like—well—if you have such knowledge or if you + have it not, I cannot say, but I do say that I will indeed see you + when the warm weather has revived me a little, and put the earth 'to + rights' again so as to make pleasures of the sort possible. For if you + think that I shall not <i>like</i> to see you, you are wrong, for all your + learning. But I shall be afraid of you at first—though I am not, in + writing thus. You are Paracelsus, and I am a recluse, with nerves that + have been all broken on the rack, and now hang loosely—quivering at a + step and breath. +</p> +<p> + And what you say of society draws me on to many comparative thoughts + of your life and mine. You seem to have drunken of the cup of life + full, with the sun shining on it. I have lived only inwardly; or with + <i>sorrow</i>, for a strong emotion. Before this seclusion of my illness, I + was secluded still, and there are few of the youngest women in the + world who have not seen more, heard more, known more, of society, than + I, who am scarcely to be called young now. I grew up in the + country—had no social opportunities, had my heart in books and + poetry, and my experience in reveries. My sympathies drooped towards + the ground like an untrained honeysuckle—and but for <i>one</i>, in my own + house—but of this I cannot speak. It was a lonely life, growing green + like the grass around it. Books and dreams were what I lived in—and + domestic life only seemed to buzz gently around, like the bees about + the grass. And so time passed, and passed—and afterwards, when my + illness came and I seemed to stand at the edge of the world with all + done, and no prospect (as appeared at one time) of ever passing the + threshold of one room again; why then, I turned to thinking with some + bitterness (after the greatest sorrow of my life had given me room and + time to breathe) that I had stood blind in this temple I was about to + leave—that I had seen no Human nature, that my brothers and sisters + of the earth were <i>names</i> to me, that I had beheld no great mountain + or river, nothing in fact. I was as a man dying who had not read + Shakespeare, and it was too late! do you understand? And do you also + know what a disadvantage this ignorance is to my art? Why, if I live + on and yet do not escape from this seclusion, do you not perceive that + I labour under signal disadvantages—that I am, in a manner, as a + <i>blind poet</i>? Certainly, there is a compensation to a degree. I have + had much of the inner life, and from the habit of self-consciousness + and self-analysis, I make great guesses at Human nature in the main. + But how willingly I would as a poet exchange some of this lumbering, + ponderous, helpless knowledge of books, for some experience of life + and man, for some.... +</p> +<p> + But all grumbling is a vile thing. We should all thank God for our + measures of life, and think them enough for each of us. I write so, + that you may not mistake what I wrote before in relation to society, + although you do not see from my point of view; and that you may + understand what I mean fully when I say, that I have lived all my + chief <i>joys</i>, and indeed nearly all emotions that go warmly by that + name and relate to myself personally, in poetry and in poetry alone. + Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I + write—it is life, for me. Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink + and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of + being, passionately and joyfully. And thus, one lives in composition + surely—not always—but when the wheel goes round and the procession + is uninterrupted. Is it not so with you? oh—it must be so. For the + rest, there will be necessarily a reaction; and, in my own particular + case, whenever I see a poem of mine in print, or even smoothly + transcribed, the reaction is most painful. The pleasure, the sense of + power, without which I could not write a line, is gone in a moment; + and nothing remains but disappointment and humiliation. I never wrote + a poem which you could not persuade me to tear to pieces if you took + me at the right moment! I have a <i>seasonable</i> humility, I do assure + you. +</p> +<p> + How delightful to talk about oneself; but as you 'tempted me and I did + eat,' I entreat your longsuffering of my sin, and ah! if you would + but sin back so in turn! You and I seem to meet in a mild contrarious + harmony ... as in the 'si no, si no' of an Italian duet. I want to see + more of men, and you have seen too much, you say. I am in ignorance, + and you, in satiety. 'You don't even care about reading now.' Is it + possible? And I am as 'fresh' about reading, as ever I was—as long as + I keep out of the shadow of the dictionaries and of theological + controversies, and the like. Shall I whisper it to you under the + memory of the last rose of last summer? <i>I am very fond of romances</i>; + yes! and I read them not only as some wise people are known to do, for + the sake of the eloquence here and the sentiment there, and the + graphic intermixtures here and there, but for the story! just as + little children would, sitting on their papa's knee. My childish love + of a story never wore out with my love of plum cake, and now there is + not a hole in it. I make it a rule, for the most part, to read all the + romances that other people are kind enough to write—and woe to the + miserable wight who tells me how the third volume endeth. Have you in + you any surviving innocence of this sort? or do you call it idiocy? If + you do, I will forgive you, only smiling to myself—I give you + notice,—with a smile of superior pleasure! Mr. Chorley made me quite + laugh the other day by recommending Mary Hewitt's 'Improvisatore,' + with a sort of deprecating reference to the <i>descriptions</i> in the + book, just as if I never read a novel—<i>I!</i> I wrote a confession back + to him which made him shake his head perhaps, and now I confess to + <i>you</i>, unprovoked. I am one who could have forgotten the plague, + listening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it. I do not + even 'see the better part,' I am so silly. +</p> +<p> + Ah! you tempt me with a grand vision of Prometheus! <i>I</i>, who have just + escaped with my life, after treading Milton's ground, you would send + me to Æschylus's. No, <i>I do not dare</i>. And besides ... I am inclined + to think that we want new <i>forms</i>, as well as thoughts. The old gods + are dethroned. Why should we go back to the antique moulds, classical + moulds, as they are so improperly called? If it is a necessity of Art + to do so, why then those critics are right who hold that Art is + exhausted and the world too worn out for poetry. I do not, for my + part, believe this: and I believe the so-called necessity of Art to be + the mere feebleness of the artist. Let us all aspire rather to <i>Life</i>, + and let the dead bury their dead. If we have but courage to face these + conventions, to touch this low ground, we shall take strength from it + instead of losing it; and of that, I am intimately persuaded. For + there is poetry <i>everywhere</i>; the 'treasure' (see the old fable) lies + all over the field. And then Christianity is a worthy <i>myth</i>, and + poetically acceptable. +</p> +<p> + I had much to say to you, or at least something, of the 'blind hopes' + &c., but am ashamed to take a step into a new sheet. If you mean 'to + travel,' why, I shall have to miss you. Do you really mean it? How is + the play going on? and the poem? +</p> +<p> + May God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever and truly yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +E.B.B. +</p> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 31, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When you read Don Quixote, my dear romance-reader, do you ever notice + that flower of an incident of good fellowship where the friendly + Squire of Him of the Moon, or the Looking glasses, (I forget which) + passes to Sancho's dry lips, (all under a cork-tree one morning)—a + plump wine-skin,—and do you admire dear brave Miguel's knowledge of + thirsty nature when he tells you that the Drinker, having seriously + considered for a space the Pleiads, or place where they should be, + fell, as he slowly returned the shrivelled bottle to its donor, into a + deep musing of an hour's length, or thereabouts, and then ... mark ... + only <i>then</i>, fetching a profound sigh, broke silence with ... such a + piece of praise as turns pale the labours in that way of Rabelais and + the Teian (if he wasn't a Byzantine monk, alas!) and our Mr. Kenyon's + stately self—(since my own especial poet <i>à moi</i>, that can do all + with anybody, only 'sips like a fly,' she says, and so cares not to + compete with these behemoths that drink up Jordan)—Well, then ... + (oh, I must get quick to the sentence's end, and be brief as an + oracle-explainer!)—the giver is you and the taker is I, and the + letter is the wine, and the star-gazing is the reading the same, and + the brown study is—how shall I deserve and be grateful enough to this + new strange friend of my own, that has taken away my reproach among + men, that have each and all their friend, so they say (... not that I + believe all they say—they boast too soon sometimes, no doubt,—I once + was shown a letter wherein the truth stumbled out after this fashion + 'Dere Smith,—I calls you "<i>dere</i>" ... because you are so in your + shop!')—and the great sigh is,—there is no deserving nor being + grateful at all,—and the breaking silence is, and the praise is ... + ah, there, enough of it! This sunny morning is as if I wished it for + you—10 strikes by the clock now—tell me if at 10 this morning you + feel any good from my heart's wishes for you—I would give you all you + want out of my own life and gladness and yet keep twice the stock that + should by right have sufficed the thin white face that is laughing at + me in the glass yonder at the fancy of its making anyone afraid ... + and now, with another kind of laugh, at the thought that when its + owner 'travels' next, he will leave off Miss Barrett along with port + wine—<i>Dii meliora piis</i>, and, among them to +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours every where, and at all times yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<p> + I have all to say yet—next letter. R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, April 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I heard of you, dear Miss Barrett, between a Polka and a Cellarius the + other evening, of Mr. Kenyon—how this wind must hurt you! And + yesterday I had occasion to go your way—past, that is, Wimpole + Street, the end of it,—and, do you know, I did not seem to have leave + from you to go down it yet, much less count number after number till I + came to yours,—much least than less, look up when I did come there. + So I went on to a viperine she-friend of mine who, I think, rather + loves me she does so hate me, and we talked over the chances of + certain other friends who were to be balloted for at the 'Athenæum' + last night,—one of whom, it seems, was in a fright about it—'to such + little purpose' said my friend—'for he is so inoffensive—now, if one + were to style <i>you</i> that—' 'Or you'—I said—and so we hugged + ourselves in our grimness like tiger-cats. Then there is a deal in the + papers to-day about Maynooth, and a meeting presided over by Lord + Mayor Gibbs, and the Reverend Mr. Somebody's speech. And Mrs. Norton + has gone and book-made at a great rate about the Prince of Wales, + pleasantly putting off till his time all that used of old to be put + off till his mother's time;—altogether, I should dearly like to hear + from you, but not till the wind goes, and sun comes—because I shall + see Mr. Kenyon next week and get him to tell me some more. By the way, + do you suppose anybody else looks like him? If you do, the first room + full of real London people you go among you will fancy to be lighted + up by a saucer of burning salt and spirits of wine in the back ground. +</p> +<p> + Monday—last night when I could do nothing else I began to write to + you, such writing as you have seen—strange! The proper time and + season for good sound sensible and profitable forms of speech—when + ought it to have occurred, and how did I evade it in these letters of + mine? For people begin with a graceful skittish levity, lest you + should be struck all of a heap with what is to come, and <i>that</i> is + sure to be the stuff and staple of the man, full of wisdom and + sorrow,—and then again comes the fringe of reeds and pink little + stones on the other side, that you may put foot on land, and draw + breath, and think what a deep pond you have swum across. But <i>you</i> are + the real deep wonder of a creature,—and I sail these paper-boats on + you rather impudently. But I always mean to be very grave one + day,—when I am in better spirits and can go <i>fuori di me</i>. +</p> +<p> + And one thing I want to persuade you of, which is, that all you gain + by travel is the discovery that you have gained nothing, and have done + rightly in trusting to your innate ideas—or not rightly in + distrusting them, as the case may be. You get, too, a little ... + perhaps a considerable, good, in finding the world's accepted <i>moulds</i> + everywhere, into which you may run and fix your own fused metal,—but + not a grain Troy-weight do you get of new gold, silver or brass. After + this, you go boldly on your own resources, and are justified to + yourself, that's all. Three scratches with a pen,<a href="#note-14"><b>14</b></a> even with this + pen,—and you have the green little Syrenusa where I have sate and + heard the quails sing. One of these days I shall describe a country I + have seen in my soul only, fruits, flowers, birds and all. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, dear Miss Barrett, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, April 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + If you did but know dear Mr. Browning how often I have written ... not + this letter I am about to write, but another better letter to you, ... + in the midst of my silence, ... you would not think for a moment that + the east wind, with all the harm it does to me, is able to do the + great harm of putting out the light of the thought of you to my mind; + for this, indeed, it has no power to do. I had the pen in my hand once + to write; and why it fell out, I cannot tell you. And you see, ... all + your writing will not change the wind! You wished all manner of good + to me one day as the clock struck ten; yes, and I assure you I was + better that day—and I must not forget to tell you so though it is so + long since. And <i>therefore</i>, I was logically bound to believe that you + had never thought of me since ... unless you thought east winds of me! + <i>That</i> was quite clear; was it not? or would have been; if it had not + been for the supernatural conviction, I had above all, of your + kindness, which was too large to be taken in the hinge of a syllogism. + In fact I have long left off thinking that logic proves anything—it + <i>doesn't</i>, you know. +</p> +<p> + But your Lamia has taught you some subtle 'viperine' reasoning and + <i>motiving</i>, for the turning down one street instead of another. It was + conclusive. +</p> +<p> + Ah—but you will never persuade me that I am the better, or as well, + for the thing that I have not. We look from different points of view, + and yours is the point of attainment. Not that you do not truly say + that, when all is done, we must come home to place our engines, and + act by our own strength. I do not want material as material; no one + does—but every life requires a full experience, a various + experience—and I have a profound conviction that where a poet has + been shut from most of the outward aspects of life, he is at a + lamentable disadvantage. Can you, speaking for yourself, separate the + results in you from the external influences at work around you, that + you say so boldly that you get nothing from the world? You do not + <i>directly</i>, I know—but you do indirectly and by a rebound. Whatever + acts upon you, becomes <i>you</i>—and whatever you love or hate, whatever + charms you or is scorned by you, acts on you and becomes <i>you</i>. Have + you read the 'Improvisatore'? or will you? The writer seems to feel, + just as I do, the good of the outward life; and he is a poet in his + soul. It is a book full of beauty and had a great charm to me. +</p> +<p> + As to the Polkas and Cellariuses I do not covet them of course ... but + what a strange world you seem to have, to me at a distance—what a + strange husk of a world! How it looks to me like mandarin-life or + something as remote; nay, not mandarin-life but mandarin <i>manners</i>, + ... life, even the outer life, meaning something deeper, in my account + of it. As to dear Mr. Kenyon I do not make the mistake of fancying + that many can look like him or talk like him or <i>be</i> like him. I know + enough to know otherwise. When he spoke of me he should have said that + I was better notwithstanding the east wind. It is really true—I am + getting slowly up from the prostration of the severe cold, and feel + stronger in myself. +</p> +<p> + But Mrs. Norton discourses excellent music—and for the rest, there + are fruits in the world so over-ripe, that they will fall, ... without + being gathered. Let Maynooth witness to it! <i>if you think it worth + while</i>! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Elizabeth B. Barrett</span>. +</p> +<p> + And <i>is it</i> nothing to be 'justified to one's self in one's + resources?' '<i>That's all</i>,' indeed! For the 'soul's country' we will + have it also—and I know how well the birds sing in it. How glad I was + by the way to see your letter! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, April 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + If you did but know, dear Miss Barrett, how the 'full stop' after + 'Morning' just above, has turned out the fullest of stops,—and how + for about a quarter of an hour since the ink dried I have been + reasoning out the why and wherefore of the stopping, the wisdom of it, + and the folly of it.... +</p> +<p> + By this time you see what you have got in me—You ask me questions, + 'if I like novels,' 'if the "Improvisatore" is not good,' 'if travel + and sightseeing do not effect this and that for one,' and 'what I am + devising—play or poem,'—and I shall not say I could not answer at + all manner of lengths—but, let me only begin some good piece of + writing of the kind, and ... no, you shall have it, have what I was + going to tell you stops such judicious beginnings,—in a parallel + case, out of which your ingenuity shall, please, pick the + meaning—There is a story of D'Israeli's, an old one, with an episode + of strange interest, or so I found it years ago,—well, you go + breathlessly on with the people of it, page after page, till at last + the end <i>must</i> come, you feel—and the tangled threads draw to one, + and an out-of-door feast in the woods helps you ... that is, helps + them, the people, wonderfully on,—and, lo, dinner is done, and Vivian + Grey is here, and Violet Fane there,—and a detachment of the party is + drafted off to go catch butterflies, and only two or three stop + behind. At this moment, Mr. Somebody, a good man and rather the lady's + uncle, 'in answer to a question from Violet, drew from his pocket a + small neatly written manuscript, and, seating himself on an inverted + wine-cooler, proceeded to read the following brief remarks upon the + characteristics of the Moeso-gothic literature'—this ends the + page,—which you don't turn at once! But when you <i>do</i>, in bitterness + of soul, turn it, you read—'On consideration, I' (Ben, himself) + 'shall keep them for Mr. Colburn's <i>New Magazine</i>'—and deeply you + draw thankful breath! (Note this 'parallel case' of mine is pretty + sure to meet the usual fortune of my writings—you will ask what it + means—and this it means, or should mean, all of it, instance and + reasoning and all,—that I am naturally earnest, in earnest about + whatever thing I do, and little able to write about one thing while I + think of another)— +</p> +<p> + I think I will really write verse to you some day—<i>this</i> day, it is + quite clear I had better give up trying. +</p> +<p> + No, spite of all the lines in the world, I will make an end of it, as + Ophelia with her swan's-song,—for it grows too absurd. But remember + that I write letters to nobody but you, and that I want method and + much more. That book you like so, the Danish novel, must be full of + truth and beauty, to judge from the few extracts I have seen in + Reviews. That a Dane should write so, confirms me in an old + belief—that Italy is stuff for the use of the North, and no + more—pure Poetry there is none, nearly as possible none, in Dante + even—material for Poetry in the pitifullest romancist of their + thousands, on the contrary—strange that those great wide black eyes + should stare nothing out of the earth that lies before them! Alfieri, + with even grey eyes, and a life of travel, writes you some fifteen + tragedies as colourless as salad grown under a garden glass with + matting over it—as free, that is, from local colouring, touches of + the soil they are said to spring from,—think of 'Saulle,' and his + Greek attempts! +</p> +<p> + I expected to see Mr. Kenyon, at a place where I was last week, but he + kept away. Here is the bad wind back again, and the black sky. I am + sure I never knew till now whether the East or West or South were the + quarter to pray for—But surely the weather was a little better last + week, and you, were you not better? And do you know—but it's all + self-flattery I believe,—still I cannot help fancying the East wind + does my head harm too! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours faithfully, </p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, May 2, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + People say of you and of me, dear Mr. Browning, that we love the + darkness and use a sphinxine idiom in our talk; and really you do talk + a little like a sphinx in your argument drawn from 'Vivian Grey.' Once + I sate up all night to read 'Vivian Grey'; but I never drew such an + argument from him. Not that I give it up (nor <i>you</i> up) for a mere + mystery. Nor that I can '<i>see what you have got in you</i>,' from a mere + guess. But just observe! If I ask questions about novels, is it not + because I want to know how much elbow-room there may be for our + sympathies ... and whether there is room for my loose sleeves, and the + lace lappets, as well as for my elbows; and because I want to see + <i>you</i> by the refracted lights as well as by the direct ones; and + because I am willing for you to know <i>me</i> from the beginning, with all + my weaknesses and foolishnesses, ... as they are accounted by people + who say to me 'no one would ever think, without knowing you, that you + were so and so.' Now if I send all my idle questions to <i>Colburn's + Magazine</i>, with other Gothic literature, and take to standing up in a + perpendicular personality like the angel on the schoolman's needle, in + my letters to come, without further leaning to the left or the + right—why the end would be that <i>you</i> would take to 'running after + the butterflies,' for change of air and exercise. And then ... oh ... + then, my 'small neatly written manuscripts' might fall back into my + desk...! (<i>Not</i> a 'full stop'!.) +</p> +<p> + Indeed ... I do assure you ... I never for a moment thought of 'making + conversation' about the 'Improvisatore' or novels in general, when I + wrote what I did to you. I might, to other persons ... perhaps. + Certainly not to <i>you</i>. I was not dealing round from one pack of cards + to you and to others. That's what you meant to reproach me for you + know,—and of that, I am not guilty at all. I never could think of + 'making conversation' in a letter to <i>you</i>—never. Women are said to + partake of the nature of children—and my brothers call me 'absurdly + childish' sometimes: and I am capable of being childishly 'in earnest' + about novels, and straws, and such 'puppydogs' tails' as my Flush's! + Also I write more letters than you do, ... I write in fact almost as + you pay visits, ... and one has to 'make conversation' in turn, of + course. <i>But</i>—give me something to vow by—whatever you meant in the + 'Vivian Grey' argument, you were wrong in it! and you never can be + much more wrong—which is a comfortable reflection. +</p> +<p> + Yet you leap very high at Dante's crown—or you do not leap, ... you + simply extend your hand to it, and make a rustling among the laurel + leaves, which is somewhat prophane. Dante's poetry only materials for + the northern rhymers! I must think of that ... if you please ... + before I agree with you. Dante's poetry seems to come down in hail, + rather than in rain—but count me the drops congealed in one + hailstone! Oh! the 'Flight of the Duchess'—do let us hear more of + her! Are you (I wonder) ... not a 'self-flatterer,' ... but ... a + flatterer. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 3, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Now shall you see what you shall see—here shall be 'sound speech not + to be reproved,'—for this morning you are to know that the soul of me + has it all her own way, dear Miss Barrett, this green cool + nine-in-the-morning time for my chestnut tree over there, and for me + who only coaxed my good-natured—(really)—body up, after its + three-hours' night-rest on condition it should lounge, or creep about, + incognito and without consequences—and so it shall, all but my + right-hand which is half-spirit and 'cuts' its poor relation, and + passes itself off for somebody (that is, some soul) and is doubly + active and ready on such occasions—Now I shall tell you all about it, + first what last letter meant, and then more. You are to know, then + that for some reason, that looked like an instinct, I thought I ought + not to send shaft on shaft, letter-plague on letter, with such an + uninterrupted clanging ... that I ought to wait, say a week at least + having killed all your mules for you, before I shot down your + dogs—but not being exactly Phoibos Apollon, you are to know further + that when I <i>did</i> think I might go modestly on, ... <span title="ômoi">ωμοι</span>, let + me get out of this slough of a simile, never mind with what + dislocation of ancles! Plainly, from waiting and turning my eyes away + (not from <i>you</i>, but from you in your special capacity of being + <i>written</i>-to, not spoken-to) when I turned again you had grown + formidable somehow—though that's not the word,—nor are you the + person, either,—it was my fortune, my privilege of being your friend + this one way, that it seemed a shame for me to make no better use of + than taking it up with talk about books and I don't know what. Write + what I will, you would read for once, I think—well, then,—what I + shall write shall be—something on this book, and the other book, and + my own books, and Mary Hewitt's books, and at the end of it—good bye, + and I hope here is a quarter of an hour rationally spent. So the + thought of what I should find in my heart to say, and the contrast + with what I suppose I ought to say ... all these things are against + me. But this is very foolish, all the same, I need not be told—and is + part and parcel of an older—indeed primitive body of mine, which I + shall never wholly get rid of, of desiring to do nothing when I cannot + do all; seeing nothing, getting, enjoying nothing, where there is no + seeing and getting and enjoying <i>wholly</i>—and in this case, moreover, + you are <i>you</i>, and know something about me, if not much, and have read + Bos on the art of supplying Ellipses, and (after, particularly, I have + confessed all this, why and how it has been) you will <i>subaudire</i> when + I pull out my Mediæval-Gothic-Architectural-Manuscript (so it was, I + remember now,) and instruct you about corbeils and ogives ... though, + after all, it was none of Vivian's doing, that,—all the uncle kind or + man's, which I never professed to be. Now you see how I came to say + some nonsense (I very vaguely think <i>what</i>) about Dante—some + desperate splash I know I made for the beginning of my picture, as + when a painter at his wits' end and hunger's beginning says 'Here + shall the figure's hand be'—and spots <i>that</i> down, meaning to reach + it naturally from the other end of his canvas,—and leaving off tired, + there you see the spectral disjoined thing, and nothing between it and + rationality. I intended to shade down and soften off and put in and + leave out, and, before I had done, bring Italian Poets round to their + old place again in my heart, giving new praise if I took old,—anyhow + Dante is out of it all, as who knows but I, with all of him in my head + and heart? But they do fret one, those tantalizing creatures, of fine + passionate class, with such capabilities, and such a facility of being + made pure mind of. And the special instance that vexed me, was that a + man of sands and dog-roses and white rock and green sea-water just + under, should come to Italy where my heart lives, and discover the + sights and sounds ... certainly discover them. And so do all Northern + writers; for take up handfuls of sonetti, rime, poemetti, doings of + those who never did anything else,—and try and make out, for + yourself, what ... say, what flowers they tread on, or trees they walk + under,—as you might bid <i>them</i>, those tree and flower loving + creatures, pick out of <i>our</i> North poetry a notion of what <i>our</i> + daisies and harebells and furze bushes and brambles are—'Odorosi + fioretti, rose porporine, bianchissimi gigli.' And which of you + eternal triflers was it called yourself 'Shelley' and so told me years + ago that in the mountains it was a feast +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">When one should find those globes of deep red gold—<br> +Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear,<br> +Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + so that when my Uncle walked into a sorb-tree, not to tumble sheer + over Monte Calvano, and I felt the fruit against my face, the little + ragged bare-legged guide fairly laughed at my knowing them so + well—'Niursi—sorbi!' No, no,—does not all Naples-bay and half + Sicily, shore and inland, come flocking once a year to the Piedigrotta + fête only to see the blessed King's Volanti, or livery servants all in + their best; as though heaven opened; and would not I engage to bring + the whole of the Piano (of Sorrento) in likeness to a red velvet + dressing gown properly spangled over, before the priest that held it + out on a pole had even begun his story of how Noah's son Shem, the + founder of Sorrento, threw it off to swim thither, as the world knows + he did? Oh, it makes one's soul angry, so enough of it. But never + enough of telling you—bring all your sympathies, come with loosest + sleeves and longest lace-lappets, and you and yours shall find 'elbow + room,' oh, shall you not! For never did man, woman or child, Greek, + Hebrew, or as Danish as our friend, like a thing, not to say love it, + but I liked and loved it, one liking neutralizing the rebellious stir + of its fellow, so that I don't go about now wanting the fixed stars + before my time; this world has not escaped me, thank God; and—what + other people say is the best of it, may not escape me after all, + though until so very lately I made up my mind to do without + it;—perhaps, on that account, and to make fair amends to other + people, who, I have no right to say, complain without cause. I have + been surprised, rather, with something not unlike illness of late—I + have had a constant pain in the head for these two months, which only + very rough exercise gets rid of, and which stops my 'Luria' and much + besides. I thought I never could be unwell. Just now all of it is + gone, thanks to polking all night and walking home by broad daylight + to the surprise of the thrushes in the bush here. And do you know I + said 'this must <i>go</i>, cannot mean to stay, so I will not tell Miss + Barrett why this and this is not done,'—but I mean to tell you all, + or more of the truth, because you call me 'flatterer,' so that my eyes + widened again! I, and in what? And of whom, pray? not of <i>you</i>, at all + events,—of whom then? <i>Do</i> tell me, because I want to stand with + you—and am quite in earnest there. And 'The Flight of the Duchess,' + to leave nothing out, is only the beginning of a story written some + time ago, and given to poor Hood in his emergency at a day's + notice,—the true stuff and story is all to come, the 'Flight,' and + what you allude to is the mere introduction—but the Magazine has + passed into other hands and I must put the rest in some 'Bell' or + other—it is one of my Dramatic Romances. So is a certain 'Saul' I + should like to show you one day—an ominous liking—for nobody ever + sees what I do till it is printed. But as you <i>do</i> know the printed + little part of me, I should not be sorry if, in justice, you knew all + I have <i>really</i> done,—written in the portfolio there,—though that + would be far enough from <i>this</i> me, that wishes to you now. I should + like to write something in concert with you, how I would try! +</p> +<p> + I have read your letter through again. Does this clear up all the + difficulty, and do you see that I never dreamed of 'reproaching you + for dealing out one sort of cards to me and everybody else'—but that + ... why, '<i>that</i>' which I have, I hope, said, so need not resay. I + will tell you—Sydney Smith laughs somewhere at some Methodist or + other whose wont was, on meeting an acquaintance in the street, to + open at once on him with some enquiry after the state of his + soul—Sydney knows better now, and sees that one might quite as wisely + ask such questions as the price of Illinois stock or condition of + glebe-land,—and I <i>could</i> say such—'could,'—the plague of it! So no + more at present from your loving.... Or, let me tell you I am going to + see Mr. Kenyon on the 12th inst.—that you do not tell me how you are, + and that yet if you do not continue to improve in health ... I shall + not see you—not—not—not—what 'knots' to untie! Surely the wind + that sets my chestnut-tree dancing, all its baby-cone-blossoms, green + now, rocking like fairy castles on a hill in an earthquake,—that is + South West, surely! God bless you, and me in that—and do write to me + soon, and tell me who was the 'flatterer,' and how he never was +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours </p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday—and Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, May 6, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + So when wise people happen to be ill, they sit up till six o'clock in + the morning and get up again at nine? Do tell me how Lurias can ever + be made out of such ungodly imprudences. If the wind blows east or + west, where can any remedy be, while such evil deeds are being + committed? And what is to be the end of it? And what is the + reasonableness of it in the meantime, when we all know that thinking, + dreaming, creating people like yourself, have two lives to bear + instead of one, and therefore ought to sleep more than others, ... + throwing over and buckling in that fold of death, to stroke the + life-purple smoother. You have to live your own personal life, and + also Luria's life—and therefore you should sleep for both. It is + logical indeed—and rational, ... which logic is not always ... and if + I had 'the tongue of men and of angels,' I would use it to persuade + you. Polka, for the rest, may be good; but sleep is better. I think + better of sleep than I ever did, now that she will not easily come + near me except in a red hood of poppies. And besides, ... praise your + 'goodnatured body' as you like, ... it is only a seeming goodnature! + Bodies bear malice in a terrible way, be very sure!—appear mild and + smiling for a few short years, and then ... out with a cold steel; and + the <i>soul has it</i>, 'with a vengeance,' ... according to the phrase! + You will not persist, (will you?) in this experimental homicide. Or + tell me if you will, that I may do some more tearing. It really, + really is wrong. Exercise is one sort of rest and you feel relieved by + it—and sleep is another: one being as necessary as the other. +</p> +<p> + This is the first thing I have to say. The next is a question. <i>What + do you mean about your manuscripts ... about 'Saul' and the + portfolio?</i> for I am afraid of hazardously supplying ellipses—and + your 'Bos' comes to <span title="bous epi glôssê">βους επι γλωσση</span>.<b><a href="#note-15">15</a></b> I get half bribed to + silence by the very pleasure of fancying. But if it could be possible + that you should mean to say you would show me.... Can it be? or am I + reading this 'Attic contraction' quite the wrong way? You see I am + afraid of the difference between flattering myself and being + flattered; the fatal difference. And now will you understand that I + should be too overjoyed to have revelations from the 'Portfolio,' ... + however incarnated with blots and pen-scratches, ... to be able to ask + impudently of them now? Is that plain? +</p> +<p> + It must be, ... at any rate, ... that if <i>you</i> would like to 'write + something together' with me, <i>I</i> should like it still better. I should + like it for some ineffable reasons. And I should not like it a bit the + less for the grand supply of jests it would administer to the critical + Board of Trade, about visible darkness, multiplied by two, mounting + into palpable obscure. We should not mind ... should we? <i>you</i> would + not mind, if you had got over certain other considerations + deconsiderating to your coadjutor. Yes—but I dare not do it, ... I + mean, think of it, ... just now, if ever: and I will tell you why in a + Mediæval-Gothic-architectural manuscript. +</p> +<p> + The only poet by profession (if I may say so,) except yourself, with + whom I ever had much intercourse even on paper, (if this is near to + 'much') has been Mr. Horne. We approached each other on the point of + one of Miss Mitford's annual editorships; and ever since, he has had + the habit of writing to me occasionally; and when I was too ill to + write at all, in my dreary Devonshire days, I was his debtor for + various little kindnesses, ... for which I continue his debtor. In my + opinion he is a truehearted and generous man. Do you not think so? + Well—long and long ago, he asked me to write a drama with him on the + Greek model; that is, for me to write the choruses, and for him to do + the dialogue. Just then it was quite doubtful in my own mind, and + worse than doubtful, whether I ever should write again; and the very + doubtfulness made me speak my 'yes' more readily. Then I was desired + to make a subject, ... to conceive a plan; and my plan was of a man, + haunted by his own soul, ... (making her a separate personal Psyche, a + dreadful, beautiful Psyche)—the man being haunted and terrified + through all the turns of life by her. Did you ever feel afraid of your + own soul, as I have done? I think it is a true wonder of our + humanity—and fit subject enough for a wild lyrical drama. I should + like to write it by myself at least, well enough. But with him I will + not now. It was delayed ... delayed. He cut the plan up into scenes + ... I mean into a list of scenes ... a sort of ground-map to work + on—and there it lies. Nothing more was done. It all lies in one + sheet—and I have offered to give up my copyright of idea in it—if he + likes to use it alone—or I should not object to work it out alone on + my own side, since it comes from me: only I will not consent now to a + <i>double work</i> in it. There are objections—none, be it well + understood, in Mr. Horne's disfavour,—for I think of him as well at + this moment, and the same in all essential points, as I ever did. He + is a man of fine imagination, and is besides good and generous. In the + course of our acquaintance (on paper—for I never saw him) I never was + angry with him except once; and then, <i>I</i> was quite wrong and had to + confess it. But this is being too 'mediæval.' Only you will see from + it that I am a little entangled on the subject of compound works, and + must look where I tread ... and you will understand (if you ever hear + from Mr. Kenyon or elsewhere that I am going to write a compound-poem + with Mr. Horne) how it <i>was</i> true, and isn't true any more. +</p> +<p> + Yes—you are going to Mr. Kenyon's on the 12th—and yes—my brother + and sister are going to meet you and your sister there one day to + dinner. Shall I have courage to see you soon, I wonder! If you ask me, + I must ask myself. But oh, this make-believe May—it can't be May + after all! If a south-west wind sate in your chestnut tree, it was but + for a few hours—the east wind 'came up this way' by the earliest + opportunity of succession. As the old 'mysteries' showed 'Beelzebub + with a bearde,' even so has the east wind had a 'bearde' of late, in a + full growth of bristling exaggerations—the English spring-winds have + excelled themselves in evil this year; and I have not been down-stairs + yet.—<i>But</i> I am certainly stronger and better than I was—that is + undeniable—and I <i>shall</i> be better still. You are not going away + soon—are you? In the meantime you do not know what it is to be ... a + little afraid of Paracelsus. So right about the Italians! and the + 'rose porporine' which made me smile. How is the head? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Is the 'Flight of the Duchess' in the portfolio? Of course you must + ring the Bell. That poem has a strong heart in it, to begin <i>so</i> + strongly. Poor Hood! And all those thoughts fall mixed together. May + God bless you. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday—in the last hour of it.<br> +[Post-mark, May 12, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + May I ask how the head is? just under the bag? Mr. Kenyon was here + to-day and told me such bad news that I cannot sleep to-night + (although I did think once of doing it) without asking such a question + as this, dear Mr. Browning. +</p> +<p> + Let me hear how you are—Will you? and let me hear (if I can) that it + was prudence or some unchristian virtue of the sort, and not a dreary + necessity, which made you put aside the engagement for Tuesday—for + Monday. I had been thinking so of seeing you on Tuesday ... with my + sister's eyes—for the first sight. +</p> +<p> + And now if you have done killing the mules and the dogs, let me have + a straight quick arrow for myself, if you please. Just a word, to say + how you are. I ask for no more than a word, lest the writing should be + hurtful to you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you always.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, May 12, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + My dear, own friend, I am quite well now, or next to it—but this is + how it was,—I have gone out a great deal of late, and my head took to + ringing such a literal alarum that I wondered what was to come of it; + and at last, a few evenings ago, as I was dressing for a dinner + somewhere, I got really bad of a sudden, and kept at home to my + friend's heartrending disappointment. Next morning I was no + better—and it struck me that I should be really disappointing dear + kind Mr. Kenyon, and wasting his time, if that engagement, too, were + broken with as little warning,—so I thought it best to forego all + hopes of seeing him, at such a risk. And that done, I got rid of every + other promise to pay visits for next week and next, and told + everybody, with considerable dignity, that my London season was over + for this year, as it assuredly is—and I shall be worried no more, and + let walk in the garden, and go to bed at ten o'clock, and get done + with what is most expedient to do, and my 'flesh shall come again like + a little child's,' and one day, oh the day, I shall see you with my + own, own eyes ... for, how little you understand me; or rather, + yourself,—if you think I would dare see you, without your leave, that + way! Do you suppose that your power of giving and refusing ends when + you have shut your room-door? Did I not tell you I turned down another + street, even, the other day, and why not down yours? And often as I + see Mr. Kenyon, have I ever dreamed of asking any but the merest + conventional questions about you; your health, and no more? +</p> +<p> + I will answer your letter, the last one, to-morrow—I have said + nothing of what I want to say. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 13, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Did I thank you with any effect in the lines I sent yesterday, dear + Miss Barrett? I know I felt most thankful, and, of course, began + reasoning myself into the impropriety of allowing a 'more' or a 'most' + in feelings of that sort towards you. I am thankful for you, all about + you—as, do you not know? +</p> +<p> + Thank you, from my soul. +</p> +<p> + Now, let me never pass occasion of speaking well of Horne, who + deserves your opinion of him,—it is my own, too.—He has unmistakable + genius, and is a fine, honest, enthusiastic chivalrous fellow—it is + the fashion to affect to sneer at him, of late, I think—the people he + has praised fancying that they 'pose' themselves sculpturesquely in + playing the Greatly Indifferent, and the other kind shaking each + other's hands in hysterical congratulations at having escaped such a + dishonour: <i>I</i> feel grateful to him, I know, for his generous + criticism, and glad and proud of in any way approaching such a man's + standard of poetical height. And he might be a disappointed man + too,—for the players trifled with and teased out his very nature, + which has a strange aspiration for the horrible tin-and-lacquer + 'crown' they give one from their clouds (of smooth shaven deal done + over blue)—and he don't give up the bad business yet, but thinks a + 'small' theatre would somehow not be a theatre, and an actor not quite + an actor ... I forget in what way, but the upshot is, he bates not a + jot in that rouged, wigged, padded, empty-headed, heartless tribe of + grimacers that came and canted me; not I, them;—a thing he cannot + understand—<i>so</i>, I am not the one he would have picked out to + praise, had he not been <i>loyal</i>. I know he admires your poetry + properly. God help him, and send some great artist from the country, + (who can read and write beside comprehending Shakspeare, and who + 'exasperates his H's' when the feat is to be done)—to undertake the + part of Cosmo, or Gregory, or what shall most soothe his spirit! The + subject of your play is tempting indeed—and reminds one of that wild + Drama of Calderon's which frightened Shelley just before his + death—also, of Fuseli's theory with reference to his own Picture of + Macbeth in the witches' cave ... wherein the apparition of the armed + head from the cauldron is Macbeth's own. +</p> +<p> + 'If you ask me, I must ask myself'—that is, when I am to see you—I + will <i>never</i> ask you! You do <i>not</i> know what I shall estimate that + permission at,—nor do I, quite—but you do—do not you? know so much + of me as to make my 'asking' worse than a form—I do not 'ask' you to + write to me—not <i>directly</i> ask, at least. +</p> +<p> + I will tell you—I ask you <i>not</i> to see me so long as you are unwell, + or mistrustful of— +</p> +<p> + No, no, that is being too grand! Do see me when you can, and let me + not be only writing myself +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + A kind, so kind, note from Mr. Kenyon came. We, I and my sister, are + to go in June instead.... I shall go nowhere till then; I am nearly + well—all save one little wheel in my head that keeps on its +</p> +<center> +<img src="images/image01a.png" width="150" height="81" +alt="Music: bass clef, B-flat, sostenuto"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + That you are better I am most thankful. +</p> +<p> + 'Next letter' to say how you must help me with all my new Romances and + Lyrics, and Lays and Plays, and read them and heed them and end them + and mend them! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, May 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But how 'mistrustfulness'? And how 'that way?' What have I said or + done, <i>I</i>, who am not apt to <i>be</i> mistrustful of anybody and should be + a miraculous monster if I began with <i>you</i>! What can I have said, I + say to myself again and again. +</p> +<p> + One thing, at any rate, I have done, 'that way' or this way! I have + made what is vulgarly called a 'piece of work' about little; or seemed + to make it. Forgive me. I am shy by nature:—and by position and + experience, ... by having had my nerves shaken to excess, and by + leading a life of such seclusion, ... by these things together and by + others besides, I have appeared shy and ungrateful to you. Only not + mistrustful. You could not mean to judge me so. Mistrustful people do + not write as I write, surely! for wasn't it a Richelieu or Mazarin (or + who?) who said that with five lines from anyone's hand, he could take + off his head for a corollary? I think so. +</p> +<p> + Well!—but this is to prove that I am not mistrustful, and to say, + that if you care to come to see me you can come; and that it is my + gain (as I feel it to be) and not yours, whenever you do come. You + will not talk of having come afterwards I know, because although I am + 'fast bound' to see one or two persons this summer (besides yourself, + whom I receive of choice and willingly) I <i>cannot</i> admit visitors in a + general way—and putting the question of health quite aside, it would + be unbecoming to lie here on the sofa and make a company-show of an + infirmity, and hold a beggar's hat for sympathy. I should blame it in + another woman—and the sense of it has had its weight with me + sometimes. +</p> +<p> + For the rest, ... when you write, that <i>I</i> do not know how you would + value, &c. <i>nor yourself quite</i>, you touch very accurately on the + truth ... and <i>so</i> accurately in the last clause, that to read it, + made me smile 'tant bien que mal.' Certainly you cannot 'quite know,' + or know at all, whether the least straw of pleasure can go to you from + knowing me otherwise than on this paper—and I, for my part, 'quite + know' my own honest impression, dear Mr. Browning, that none is likely + to go to you. There is nothing to see in me; nor to hear in me—I + never learnt to talk as you do in London; although I can admire that + brightness of carved speech in Mr. Kenyon and others. If my poetry is + worth anything to any eye, it is the flower of me. I have lived most + and been most happy in it, and so it has all my colours; the rest of + me is nothing but a root, fit for the ground and the dark. And if I + write all this egotism, ... it is for shame; and because I feel + ashamed of having made a fuss about what is not worth it; and because + you are extravagant in caring so for a permission, which will be + nothing to you afterwards. Not that I am not touched by your caring so + at all! I am deeply touched now; and presently, ... I shall + understand. Come then. There will be truth and simplicity for you in + any case; and a friend. And do not answer this—I do not write it as a + fly trap for compliments. Your spider would scorn me for it too much. + Also, ... as to the how and when. You are not well now, and it cannot + be good for you to do anything but be quiet and keep away that + dreadful musical note in the head. I entreat you not to think of + coming until <i>that</i> is all put to silence satisfactorily. When it is + done, ... you must choose whether you would like best to come with Mr. + Kenyon or to come alone—and if you would come alone, you must just + tell me on what day, and I will see you on any day unless there should + be an unforeseen obstacle, ... any day after two, or before six. And + my sister will bring you up-stairs to me; and we will talk; or <i>you</i> + will talk; and you will try to be indulgent, and like me as well as + you can. If, on the other hand, you would rather come with Mr. Kenyon, + you must wait, I imagine, till June,—because he goes away on Monday + and is not likely immediately to return—no, on Saturday, to-morrow. +</p> +<p> + In the meantime, why I should be '<i>thanked</i>,' is an absolute mystery + to me—but I leave it! +</p> +<p> + You are generous and impetuous; <i>that</i>, I can see and feel; and so far + from being of an inclination to mistrust you or distrust you, I do + profess to have as much faith in your full, pure loyalty, as if I had + known you personally as many years as I have appreciated your genius. + Believe this of me—for it is spoken truly. +</p> +<p> + In the matter of Shakespeare's 'poor players' you are severe—and yet + I was glad to hear you severe—it is a happy excess, I think. When men + of intense reality, as all great poets must be, give their hearts to + be trodden on and tied up with ribbons in turn, by men of masks, there + will be torture if there is not desecration. Not that I know much of + such things—but I have <i>heard</i>. Heard from Mr. Kenyon; heard from + Miss Mitford; who however is passionately fond of the theatre as a + writer's medium—<i>not at all</i>, from Mr. Horne himself, ... except what + he has printed on the subject. +</p> +<p> + Yes—he has been infamously used on the point of the 'New + Spirit'—only he should have been prepared for the infamy—it was + leaping into a gulph, ... not to 'save the republic,' but '<i>pour + rire</i>': it was not merely putting one's foot into a hornet's nest, but + taking off a shoe and stocking to do it. And to think of Dickens being + dissatisfied! To think of Tennyson's friends grumbling!—he himself + did not, I hope and trust. For you, you certainly were not adequately + treated—and above all, you were not placed with your <i>peers</i> in that + chapter—but that there was an intention to do you justice, and that + there <i>is</i> a righteous appreciation of you in the writer, I know and + am sure,—and that <i>you</i> should be sensible to this, is only what I + should know and be sure of <i>you</i>. Mr. Horne is quite above the narrow, + vicious, hateful jealousy of contemporaries, which we hear reproached, + too justly sometimes, on men of letters. +</p> +<p> + I go on writing as if I were not going to see you—soon perhaps. + Remember that the how and the when rest with you—except that it + cannot be before next week at the soonest. You are to decide. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Always your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, May 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + My friend is not 'mistrustful' of me, no, because she don't fear I + shall make mainprize of the stray cloaks and umbrellas down-stairs, or + turn an article for <i>Colburn's</i> on her sayings and doings + up-stairs,—but spite of that, she does mistrust ... <i>so</i> mistrust my + common sense,—nay, uncommon and dramatic-poet's sense, if I am put on + asserting it!—all which pieces of mistrust I could detect, and catch + struggling, and pin to death in a moment, and put a label in, with + name, genus and species, just like a horrible entomologist; only I + won't, because the first visit of the Northwind will carry the whole + tribe into the Red Sea—and those horns and tails and scalewings are + best forgotten altogether. And now will I say a cutting thing and have + done. Have I trusted <i>my</i> friend so,—or said even to myself, much + less to her, she is even as—'Mr. Simpson' who desireth the honour of + the acquaintance of Mr. B. whose admirable works have long been his, + Simpson's, especial solace in private—and who accordingly is led to + that personage by a mutual friend—Simpson blushing as only adorable + ingenuousness can, and twisting the brim of his hat like a sailor + giving evidence. Whereupon Mr. B. beginneth by remarking that the + rooms are growing hot—or that he supposes Mr. S. has not heard if + there will be another adjournment of the House to-night—whereupon Mr. + S. looketh up all at once, brusheth the brim smooth again with his + sleeve, and takes to his assurance once more, in something of a huff, + and after staying his five minutes out for decency's sake, noddeth + familiarly an adieu, and spinning round on his heel ejaculateth + mentally—'Well, I <i>did</i> expect to see something different from that + little yellow commonplace man ... and, now I come to think, there + <i>was</i> some precious trash in that book of his'—Have <i>I</i> said 'so will + Miss Barrett ejaculate?' +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Barrett, I thank you for the leave you give me, and for the + infinite kindness of the way of giving it. I will call at 2 on + Tuesday—not sooner, that you may have time to write should any + adverse circumstances happen ... not that they need inconvenience you, + because ... what I want particularly to tell you for now and + hereafter—do not mind my coming in the least, but—should you be + unwell, for instance,—just send or leave word, and I will come again, + and again, and again—my time is of <i>no</i> importance, and I have + acquaintances thick in the vicinity. +</p> +<p> + Now if I do not seem grateful enough to you, <i>am</i> I so much to blame? + You see it is high time you <i>saw</i> me, for I have clearly written + myself <i>out</i>! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, May 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and protest against + your horrible 'entomology.' Beginning to explain, would thrust me + lower and lower down the circles of some sort of an 'Inferno'; only + with my dying breath I would maintain that I never could, consciously + or unconsciously, mean to distrust you; or, the least in the world, to + Simpsonize you. What I said, ... it was <i>you</i> that put it into my head + to say it—for certainly, in my usual disinclination to receive + visitors, such a feeling does not enter. There, now! There, I am a + whole 'giro' lower! Now, you will say perhaps that I distrust <i>you</i>, + and nobody else! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the 'cutting + things' with resignation! <i>that</i> is certain. +</p> +<p> + Still I must really say, under this dreadful incubus-charge of + Simpsonism, ... that you, who know everything, or at least make awful + guesses at everything in one's feelings and motives, and profess to be + able to pin them down in a book of classified inscriptions, ... should + have been able to understand better, or misunderstand less, in a + matter like this—Yes! I think so. I think you should have made out + the case in some such way as it was in nature—viz. that you had + lashed yourself up to an exorbitant wishing to see me, ... (you who + could see, any day, people who are a hundredfold and to all social + purposes, my superiors!) because I was unfortunate enough to be shut + up in a room and silly enough to make a fuss about opening the door; + and that I grew suddenly abashed by the consciousness of this. How + different from a distrust of <i>you</i>! how different! +</p> +<p> + Ah—if, after this day, you ever see any interpretable sign of + distrustfulness in me, you may be 'cutting' again, and I will not cry + out. In the meantime here is a fact for your 'entomology.' I have not + so much <i>distrust</i>, as will make a <i>doubt</i>, as will make a <i>curiosity</i> + for next Tuesday. Not the simplest modification of <i>curiosity</i> enters + into the state of feeling with which I wait for Tuesday:—and if you + are angry to hear me say so, ... why, you are more unjust than ever. +</p> +<p> + (Let it be three instead of two—if the hour be as convenient to + yourself.) +</p> +<p> + Before you come, try to forgive me for my 'infinite kindness' in the + manner of consenting to see you. Is it 'the cruellest cut of all' when + you talk of infinite kindness, yet attribute such villainy to me? + Well! but we are friends till Tuesday—and after perhaps. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + If on Tuesday you should be not well, <i>pray do not come</i>—Now, that is + my request to your kindness.<a href="#note-16"><b>16</b></a> +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, May 21, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I trust to you for a true account of how you are—if tired, if not + tired, if I did wrong in any thing,—or, if you please, <i>right</i> in any + thing—(only, not one more word about my 'kindness,' which, to get + done with, I will grant is exceptive)—but, let us so arrange matters + if possible,—and why should it not be—that my great happiness, such + as it will be if I see you, as this morning, from time to time, may be + obtained at the cost of as little inconvenience to you as we can + contrive. For an instance—just what strikes me—they all say here I + speak very loud—(a trick caught from having often to talk with a deaf + relative of mine). And did I stay too long? +</p> +<p> + I will tell <i>you</i> unhesitatingly of such 'corrigenda'—nay, I will + again say, do not humiliate me—<i>do not</i> again,—by calling me 'kind' + in that way. +</p> +<p> + I am proud and happy in your friendship—now and ever. May God bless + you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Indeed there was nothing wrong—how could there be? And there was + everything right—as how should there not be? And as for the 'loud + speaking,' I did not hear any—and, instead of being worse, I ought to + be better for what was certainly (to speak it, or be silent of it,) + happiness and honour to me yesterday. +</p> +<p> + Which reminds me to observe that you are so restricting our + vocabulary, as to be ominous of silence in a full sense, presently. + First, one word is not to be spoken—and then, another is not. And + why? Why deny me the use of such words as have natural feelings + belonging to them—and how can the use of such be 'humiliating' to + <i>you</i>? If my heart were open to you, you could see nothing offensive + to you in any thought there or trace of thought that has been + there—but it is hard for you to understand, with all your psychology + (and to be reminded of it I have just been looking at the preface of + some poems by some Mr. Gurney where he speaks of 'the reflective + wisdom of a Wordsworth and the profound psychological utterances of a + Browning') it is hard for you to understand what my mental position is + after the peculiar experience I have suffered, and what <span title="ti emoi kai soi">τι εμοι και σοι</span><b><a href="#note-17">17</a></b> a sort of feeling is irrepressible from me to you, + when, from the height of your brilliant happy sphere, you ask, as you + did ask, for personal intercourse with me. What words but 'kindness' + ... but 'gratitude'—but I will not in any case be <i>un</i>kind and + <i>un</i>grateful, and do what is displeasing to you. And let us both leave + the subject with the words—because we perceive in it from different + points of view; we stand on the black and white sides of the shield; + and there is no coming to a conclusion. +</p> +<p> + But you will come really on Tuesday—and again, when you like and can + together—and it will not be more 'inconvenient' to me to be pleased, + I suppose, than it is to people in general—will it, do you think? + Ah—how you misjudge! Why it must obviously and naturally be + delightful to me to receive you here when you like to come, and it + cannot be necessary for me to say so in set words—believe it of +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + [Mr. Browning's letter, to which the following is in answer was + destroyed, see <a href="#268">page 268</a> of the present volume.] +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, May 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I intended to write to you last night and this morning, and could + not,—you do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And + if I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking, (I for my part) of your + wild speaking, I do it, not to displease you, but to be in my own + eyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a + generosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance, + yet conclusively; and because my silence would be the most disloyal of + all means of expression, in reference to it. Listen to me then in + this. You have said some intemperate things ... fancies,—which you + will not say over again, nor unsay, but <i>forget at once</i>, and <i>for + ever, having said at all</i>; and which (so) will die out between <i>you + and me alone</i>, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this + you will do <i>for my sake</i> who am your friend (and you have none + truer)—and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our + future liberty of intercourse. You remember—surely you do—that I am + in the most exceptional of positions; and that, just <i>because of it</i>, + I am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday; and that, for me to + listen to 'unconscious exaggerations,' is as unbecoming to the + humilities of my position, as unpropitious (which is of more + consequence) to the prosperities of yours. Now, if there should be one + word of answer attempted to this; or of reference; <i>I must not</i> ... I + <i>will not see you again</i>—and you will justify me later in your heart. + So for my sake you will not say it—I think you will not—and spare me + the sadness of having to break through an intercourse just as it is + promising pleasure to me; to me who have so many sadnesses and so few + pleasures. You will!—and I need not be uneasy—and I shall owe you + that tranquillity, as one gift of many. For, that I have much to + receive from you in all the free gifts of thinking, teaching, + master-spirits, ... <i>that</i>, I know!—it is my own praise that I + appreciate you, as none can more. Your influence and help in poetry + will be full of good and gladness to me—for with many to love me in + this house, there is no one to judge me ... <i>now</i>. Your friendship and + sympathy will be dear and precious to me all my life, if you indeed + leave them with me so long or so little. Your mistakes in me ... which + <i>I</i> cannot mistake (—and which have humbled me by too much + honouring—) I put away gently, and with grateful tears in my eyes; + because <i>all that hail</i> will beat down and spoil crowns, as well as + 'blossoms.' +</p> +<p> + If I put off next Tuesday to the week after—I mean your visit,—shall + you care much? For the relations I named to you, are to be in London + next week; and I am to see one of my aunts whom I love, and have not + met since my great affliction—and it will all seem to come over + again, and I shall be out of spirits and nerves. On Tuesday week you + can bring a tomahawk and do the criticism, and I shall try to have my + courage ready for it—Oh, you will do me so much good—and Mr. Kenyon + calls me 'docile' sometimes I assure you; when he wants to flatter me + out of being obstinate—and in good earnest, I believe I shall do + everything you tell me. The 'Prometheus' is done—but the monodrama is + where it was—and the novel, not at all. But I think of some half + promises half given, about something I read for 'Saul'—and the + 'Flight of the Duchess'—where is she? +</p> +<p> + You are not displeased with me? <i>no, that</i> would be hail and lightning + together—I do not write as I might, of some words of yours—but you + know that I am not a stone, even if silent like one. And if in the + <i>un</i>silence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had + to say it—and for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of + vexation from my words or my deeds! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your friend in grateful regard,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Don't you remember I told you, once on a time that you 'knew nothing + of me'? whereat you demurred—but I meant what I said, and knew it was + so. To be grand in a simile, for every poor speck of a Vesuvius or a + Stromboli in my microcosm there are huge layers of ice and pits of + black cold water—and I make the most of my two or three fire-eyes, + because I know by experience, alas, how these tend to extinction—and + the ice grows and grows—still this last is true part of me, most + characteristic part, <i>best</i> part perhaps, and I disown + nothing—only,—when you talked of '<i>knowing</i> me'! Still, I am utterly + unused, of these late years particularly, to dream of communicating + anything about <i>that</i> to another person (all my writings are purely + dramatic as I am always anxious to say) that when I make never so + little an attempt, no wonder if I <i>bungle</i> notably—'language,' too is + an organ that never studded this heavy heavy head of mine. Will you + not think me very brutal if I tell you I could almost smile at your + misapprehension of what I meant to write?—Yet I <i>will</i> tell you, + because it will undo the bad effect of my thoughtlessness, and at the + same time exemplify the point I have all along been honestly earnest + to set you right upon ... my real inferiority to you; just that and no + more. I wrote to you, in an unwise moment, on the spur of being again + 'thanked,' and, unwisely writing just as if thinking to myself, said + what must have looked absurd enough as seen apart from the horrible + counterbalancing never-to-be-written <i>rest of me</i>—by the side of + which, could it be written and put before you, my note would sink to + its proper and relative place, and become a mere 'thank you' for your + good opinion—which I assure you is far too generous—for I really + believe you to be my superior in many respects, and feel uncomfortable + till <i>you</i> see that, too—since I hope for your sympathy and + assistance, and 'frankness is everything in such a case.' I do assure + you, that had you read my note, <i>only</i> having '<i>known</i>' so much of me + as is implied in having inspected, for instance, the contents, merely, + of that fatal and often-referred-to 'portfolio' there (<i>Dii meliora + piis!</i>), you would see in it, (the note not the portfolio) the + blandest utterance ever mild gentleman gave birth to. But I forgot + that one may make too much noise in a silent place by playing the few + notes on the 'ear-piercing fife' which in Othello's regimental band + might have been thumped into decent subordination by his + 'spirit-stirring drum'—to say nothing of gong and ophicleide. Will + you forgive me, on promise to remember for the future, and be more + considerate? Not that you must too much despise me, neither; nor, of + all things, apprehend I am attitudinizing à la Byron, and giving you + to understand unutterable somethings, longings for Lethe and all + that—far from it! I never committed murders, and sleep the soundest + of sleeps—but 'the heart is desperately wicked,' that is true, and + though I dare not say 'I know' mine, yet I have had signal + opportunities, I who began life from the beginning, and can forget + nothing (but names, and the date of the battle of Waterloo), and have + known good and wicked men and women, gentle and simple, shaking hands + with Edmund Kean and Father Mathew, you and—Ottima! Then, I had a + certain faculty of self-consciousness, years and years ago, at which + John Mill wondered, and which ought to be improved by this time, if + constant use helps at all—and, meaning, on the whole, to be a Poet, + if not <i>the</i> Poet ... for I am vain and ambitious some nights,—I do + myself justice, and dare call things by their names to myself, and say + boldly, this I love, this I hate, this I would do, this I would not + do, under all kinds of circumstances,—and talking (thinking) in this + style <i>to myself</i>, and beginning, however tremblingly, in spite of + conviction, to write in this style <i>for myself</i>—on the top of the + desk which contains my 'Songs of the Poets—<SPAN class="sc-ex">no. i</span> M.P.', I + wrote,—what you now forgive, I know! Because I am, from my heart, + sorry that by a foolish fit of inconsideration I should have given + pain for a minute to you, towards whom, on every account, I would + rather soften and 'sleeken every word as to a bird' ... (and, not such + a bird as my black self that go screeching about the world for 'dead + horse'—corvus (picus)—mirandola!) I, too, who have been at such + pains to acquire the reputation I enjoy in the world,—(ask Mr. + Kenyon,) and who dine, and wine, and dance and enhance the company's + pleasure till they make me ill and I keep house, as of late: Mr. + Kenyon, (for I only quote where you may verify if you please) <i>he</i> + says my common sense strikes him, and its contrast with my muddy + metaphysical poetry! And so it shall strike you—for though I am glad + that, since you <i>did</i> misunderstand me, you said so, and have given me + an opportunity of doing by another way what I wished to do in + <i>that</i>,—yet, if you had <i>not</i> alluded to my writing, as I meant you + should not, you would have certainly understood <i>something</i> of its + drift when you found me next Tuesday precisely the same quiet (no, for + I feel I speak too loudly, in spite of your kind disclaimer, but—) + the same mild man-about-town you were gracious to, the other + morning—for, indeed, my own way of worldly life is marked out long + ago, as precisely as yours can be, and I am set going with a hand, + winker-wise, on each side of my head, and a directing finger before my + eyes, to say nothing of an instinctive dread I have that a certain + whip-lash is vibrating somewhere in the neighbourhood in playful + readiness! So 'I hope here be proofs,' Dogberry's satisfaction that, + first, I am but a very poor creature compared to you and entitled by + my wants to look up to you,—all I meant to say from the first of the + first—and that, next, I shall be too much punished if, for this piece + of mere inconsideration, you deprive me, more or less, or sooner or + later, of the pleasure of seeing you,—a little over boisterous + gratitude for which, perhaps, caused all the mischief! The reasons you + give for deferring my visits next week are too cogent for me to + dispute—that is too true—and, being now and henceforward 'on my good + behaviour,' I will at once cheerfully submit to them, if needs + must—but should your mere kindness and forethought, as I half + suspect, have induced you to take such a step, you will now smile with + me, at this new and very unnecessary addition to the 'fears of me' I + have got so triumphantly over in your case! Wise man, was I not, to + clench my first favourable impression so adroitly ... like a recent + Cambridge worthy, my sister heard of; who, being on his theological + (or rather, scripture-historical) examination, was asked by the Tutor, + who wished to let him off easily, 'who was the first King of + Israel?'—'Saul' answered the trembling youth. 'Good!' nodded + approvingly the Tutor. 'Otherwise called <i>Paul</i>,' subjoined the youth + in his elation! Now I have begged pardon, and blushingly assured you + <i>that</i> was only a slip of the tongue, and that I did really <i>mean</i> all + the while, (Paul or no Paul), the veritable son of Kish, he that owned + the asses, and found listening to the harp the best of all things for + an evil spirit! Pray write me a line to say, 'Oh ... if <i>that's</i> all!' + and remember me for good (which is very compatible with a moment's + stupidity) and let me not for one fault, (and that the only one that + shall be), lose <i>any pleasure</i> ... for your friendship I am sure I + have not lost—God bless you, my dear friend! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">R. Browning</span>. +</p> +<p> + And by the way, will it not be better, as co-operating with you more + effectually in your kind promise to forget the 'printer's error' in my + blotted proof, to send me back that same 'proof,' if you have not + inflicted proper and summary justice on it? When Mephistopheles last + came to see us in this world outside here, he counselled sundry of us + 'never to write a letter,—and never to burn one'—do you know that? + But I never mind what I am told! Seriously, I am ashamed.... I shall + next ask a servant for my paste in the 'high fantastical' style of my + own 'Luria.' +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday<br> +[May 25, 1845]. +</p> +<p> + I owe you the most humble of apologies dear Mr. Browning, for having + spent so much solemnity on so simple a matter, and I hasten to pay it; + confessing at the same time (as why should I not?) that I am quite as + much ashamed of myself as I ought to be, which is not a little. You + will find it difficult to believe me perhaps when I assure you that I + never made such a mistake (I mean of over-seriousness to indefinite + compliments), no, never in my life before—indeed my sisters have + often jested with me (in matters of which they were cognizant) on my + supernatural indifference to the superlative degree in general, as if + it meant nothing in grammar. I usually know well that 'boots' may be + called for in this world of ours, just as you called for yours; and + that to bring '<i>Bootes</i>,' were the vilest of mal-à-pro-pos-ities. + Also, I should have understood 'boots' where you wrote it, in the + letter in question; if it had not been for <i>the relation of two + things</i> in it—and now I perfectly seem to see <i>how</i> I mistook that + relation; ('<i>seem to see</i>'; because I have not looked into the letter + again since your last night's commentary, and will not—) inasmuch as + I have observed before in my own mind, that a good deal of what is + called obscurity in you, arises from a habit of very subtle + association; so subtle, that you are probably unconscious of it, ... + and the effect of which is to throw together on the same level and in + the same light, things of likeness and unlikeness—till the reader + grows confused as I did, and takes one for another. I may say however, + in a poor justice to myself, that I wrote what I wrote so + unfortunately, <i>through reverence for you</i>, and not at all from vanity + in my own account ... although I do feel palpably while I write these + words here and now, that I might as well leave them unwritten; for + that no man of the world who ever lived in the world (not even <i>you</i>) + could be expected to believe them, though said, sung, and sworn. +</p> +<p> + For the rest, it is scarcely an apposite moment for you to talk, even + 'dramatically,' of my 'superiority' to you, ... unless you mean, which + perhaps you do mean, my superiority in <i>simplicity</i>—and, verily, to + some of the 'adorable ingenuousness,' sacred to the shade of Simpson, + I may put in a modest claim, ... 'and have my claim allowed.' 'Pray do + not mock me' I quote again from your Shakespeare to you who are a + dramatic poet; ... and I will admit anything that you like, (being + humble just now)—even that I <i>did not know you</i>. I was certainly + innocent of the knowledge of the 'ice and cold water' you introduce me + to, and am only just shaking my head, as Flush would, after a first + wholesome plunge. Well—if I do not know you, I shall learn, I + suppose, in time. I am ready to try humbly to learn—and I may + perhaps—if you are not done in Sanscrit, which is too hard for me, + ... notwithstanding that I had the pleasure yesterday to hear, from + America, of my profound skill in 'various languages less known than + Hebrew'!—a liberal paraphrase on Mr. Horne's large fancies on the + like subject, and a satisfactory reputation in itself—as long as it + is not necessary to deserve it. So I here enclose to you your letter + back again, as you wisely desire; although you never could doubt, I + hope, for a moment, of its safety with me in the completest of senses: + and then, from the heights of my superior ... stultity, and other + qualities of the like order, ... I venture to advise you ... however + (to speak of the letter critically, and as the dramatic composition it + is) it is to be admitted to be very beautiful, and well worthy of the + rest of its kin in the portfolio, ... 'Lays of the Poets,' or + otherwise, ... I venture to advise you to burn it at once. And then, + my dear friend, I ask you (having some claim) to burn at the same time + the letter I was fortunate enough to write to you on Friday, and this + present one—don't send them back to me; I hate to have letters sent + back—but burn them for me and never mind Mephistopheles. After which + friendly turn, you will do me the one last kindness of forgetting all + this exquisite nonsense, and of refraining from mentioning it, by + breath or pen, <i>to me or another</i>. Now I trust you so far:—you will + put it with the date of the battle of Waterloo—and I, with every date + in chronology; seeing that I can remember none of them. And we will + shuffle the cards and take patience, and begin the game again, if you + please—and I shall bear in mind that you are a dramatic poet, which + is not the same thing, by any means, with <i>us</i> of the primitive + simplicities, who don't tread on cothurns nor shift the mask in the + scene. And I will reverence you both as 'a poet' and as '<i>the</i> poet'; + because it is no false 'ambition,' but a right you have—and one which + those who live longest, will see justified to the uttermost.... In the + meantime I need not ask Mr. Kenyon if you have any sense, because I + have no doubt that you have quite sense enough—and even if I had a + doubt, I shall prefer judging for myself without interposition; which + I can do, you know, as long as you like to come and see me. And you + can come this week if you do like it—because our relations don't come + till the end of it, it appears—not that I made a pretence 'out of + kindness'—pray don't judge me so outrageously—but if you like to + come ... not on Tuesday ... but on Wednesday at three o'clock, I shall + be very glad to see you; and I, for one, shall have forgotten + everything by that time; being quick at forgetting my own faults + usually. If Wednesday does not suit you, I am not sure that I <i>can</i> + see you this week—but it depends on circumstances. Only don't think + yourself <i>obliged</i> to come on Wednesday. You know I <i>began</i> by + entreating you to be open and sincere with me—and no more—I + <i>require</i> no 'sleekening of every word.' I love the truth and can bear + it—whether in word or deed—and those who have known me longest would + tell you so fullest. Well!—May God bless you. We shall know each + other some day perhaps—and I am +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Always and faithfully your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, May 26, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Nay—I <i>must</i> have last word—as all people in the wrong desire to + have—and then, no more of the subject. You said I had given you + <i>great pain</i>—so long as I stop <i>that</i>, think anything of me you + choose or can! But <i>before</i> your former letter came, I saw the + pre-ordained uselessness of mine. Speaking is to some <i>end</i>, (apart + from foolish self-relief, which, after all, I can do without)—and + where there is <i>no</i> end—you see! or, to finish + characteristically—since the offering to cut off one's right-hand to + save anybody a headache, is in vile taste, even for our melodramas, + seeing that it was never yet believed in on the stage or off it,—how + much worse to really make the ugly chop, and afterwards come + sheepishly in, one's arm in a black sling, and find that the + delectable gift had changed aching to nausea! There! And now, 'exit, + prompt-side, nearest door, Luria'—and enter R.B.—next Wednesday,—as + boldly as he suspects most people do just after they have been soundly + frightened! +</p> +<p> + I shall be most happy to see you on the day and at the hour you + mention. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you, my dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You will think me the most changeable of all the changeable; but + indeed it is <i>not</i> my fault that I cannot, as I wished, receive you on + Wednesday. There was a letter this morning; and our friends not only + come to London but come to this house on Tuesday (to-morrow) to pass + two or three days, until they settle in an hotel for the rest of the + season. Therefore you see, it is doubtful whether the two days may not + be three, and the three days four; but if they go away in time, and + if Saturday should suit you, I will let you know by a word; and you + can answer by a yea or nay. While they are in the house, I must give + them what time I can—and indeed, it is something to dread altogether. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday. +</p> +<p> + I send you the note I had begun before receiving yours of last night, + and also a fragment<a href="#note-18"><b>18</b></a> from Mrs. Hedley's herein enclosed, a full and + complete certificate, ... that you may know ... quite <i>know</i>, ... what + the real and only reason of the obstacle to Wednesday is. On Saturday + perhaps, or on Monday more certainly, there is likely to be no + opposition, ... at least not on the 'côté gauche' (<i>my</i> side!) to our + meeting—but I will let you know more. +</p> +<p> + For the rest, we have both been a little unlucky, there's no denying, + in overcoming the embarrassments of a first acquaintance—but suffer + me to say as one other last word, (and <i>quite, quite the last this + time</i>!) in case there should have been anything approaching, however + remotely, to a distrustful or unkind tone in what I wrote on Sunday, + (and I have a sort of consciousness that in the process of my + self-scorning I was not in the most sabbatical of moods perhaps—) + that I do recall and abjure it, and from my heart entreat your pardon + for it, and profess, notwithstanding it, neither to 'choose' nor 'to + be able' to think otherwise of you than I have done, ... as of one + <i>most</i> generous and <i>most</i> loyal; for that if I chose, I could not; + and that if I could, I should not choose. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever and gratefully your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + —And now we shall hear of 'Luria,' shall we not? and much besides. + And Miss Mitford has sent me the most high comical of letters to + read, addressed to her by 'R.B. Haydon historical painter' which has + made me quite laugh; and would make <i>you</i>; expressing his righteous + indignation at the 'great fact' and gross impropriety of any man who + has 'thoughts too deep for tears' agreeing to wear a 'bag-wig' ... the + case of poor Wordsworth's going to court, you know.—Mr. Haydon being + infinitely serious all the time, and yet holding the doctrine of the + divine right of princes in his left hand. +</p> +<p> + How is your head? may I be hoping the best for it? May God bless you. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, May 28, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Saturday, Monday, as you shall appoint—no need to say that, or my + thanks—but this note troubles you, out of my bounden duty to help + you, or Miss Mitford, to make the Painter run violently down a steep + place into the sea, if that will amuse you, by further informing him, + what I know on the best authority, that Wordsworth's 'bag-wig,' or at + least, the more important of his court-habiliments, were considerately + furnished for the nonce by <i>Mr. Rogers</i> from his own wardrobe, to the + manifest advantage of the Laureate's pocket, but more problematic + improvement of his person, when one thinks on the astounding + difference of 'build' in the two Poets:—the fact should be put on + record, if only as serving to render less chimerical a promise + sometimes figuring in the columns of provincial newspapers—that the + two apprentices, some grocer or other advertises for, will be 'boarded + and <i>clothed</i> like <i>one</i> of the family.' May not your unfinished + (really good) head of the great man have been happily kept waiting for + the body which can now be added on, with all this picturesqueness of + circumstances. Precept on precept ... but then, <i>line upon line</i>, is + allowed by as good authority, and may I not draw <i>my</i> confirming black + line after yours, yet not break pledge? I am most grateful to you for + doing me justice—doing yourself, your own judgment, justice, since + even the play-wright of Theseus and the Amazon found it one of his + hardest devices to 'write me a speech, lest the lady be frightened, + wherein it shall be said that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but &c. &c.' + God bless you—one thing more, but one—you <i>could never have</i> + misunderstood the <i>asking for the letter again</i>, I feared you might + refer to it 'pour constater le fait'— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">And now I am yours—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + My head is all but well now; thank you. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, May 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Just one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, should be + fine—because in the case of its raining I <i>shall not expect you</i>; you + will find me at three o'clock. +</p> +<p> + Yes—the circumstances of the costume were mentioned in the letter; + Mr. Rogers' bag-wig and the rest, and David Wilkie's sword—and also + that the Laureate, so equipped, fell down upon both knees in the + superfluity of etiquette, and had to be picked up by two + lords-in-waiting. It is a large exaggeration I do not doubt—and then + I never sympathised with the sighing kept up by people about that + acceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bag-wig as a corollary + after it. Not that the Laureateship honoured <i>him</i>, but that he + honoured it; and that, so honouring it, he preserves a symbol + instructive to the masses, who are children and to be taught by + symbols now as formerly. Isn't it true? or at least may it not be + true? And won't the court laurel (such as it is) be all the worthier + of <i>you</i> for Wordsworth's having worn it first? +</p> +<p> + And in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow perhaps? or if it should + rain, on Monday at the same hour. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, my dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, June 7, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When I see all you have done for me in this 'Prometheus,' I feel more + than half ashamed both of it and of me for using your time so, and + forced to say in my own defence (not to you but myself) that I never + thought of meaning to inflict such work on you who might be doing so + much better things in the meantime both for me and for + others—because, you see, it is not the mere reading of the MS., but + the 'comparing' of the text, and the melancholy comparisons between + the English and the Greek, ... quite enough to turn you from your + <span title="philanthrôpou tropou">φιλανθρωπου τροπου</span><b><a href="#note-19">19</a></b> that I brought upon you; and indeed I + did not mean so much, nor so soon! Yet as you have done it for me—for + me who expected a few jottings down with a pencil and a general + opinion; it is of course of the greatest value, besides the pleasure + and pride which come of it; and I must say of the translation, (before + putting it aside for the nonce), that the circumstance of your paying + it so much attention and seeing any good in it, is quite enough reward + for the writer and quite enough motive for self-gratulation, if it + were all torn to fragments at this moment—which is a foolish thing to + say because it is so obvious, and because you would know it if I said + it or not. +</p> +<p> + And while you were doing this for me, you thought it unkind of me not + to write to you; yes, and you think me at this moment the very + princess of apologies and excuses and depreciations and all the rest + of the small family of distrust—or of hypocrisy ... who knows? Well! + but you are wrong ... wrong ... to think so; and you will let me say + one word to show where you are wrong—not for you to controvert, ... + because it must relate to myself especially, and lies beyond your + cognizance, and is something which I <i>must know best</i> after all. And + it is, ... that you persist in putting me into a false position, with + respect to <i>fixing days</i> and the like, and in making me feel somewhat + as I did when I was a child, and Papa used to put me up on the + chimney-piece and exhort me to stand up straight like a hero, which I + did, straighter and straighter, and then suddenly 'was 'ware' (as we + say in the ballads) of the walls' growing alive behind me and + extending two stony hands to push me down that frightful precipice to + the rug, where the dog lay ... dear old Havannah, ... and where he and + I were likely to be dashed to pieces together and mix our uncanonised + bones. Now my present false position ... which is not the + chimney-piece's, ... is the necessity you provide for me in the shape + of my having to name this day, or that day, ... and of your coming + because I name it, and of my having to think and remember that you + come because I name it. Through a weakness, perhaps, or morbidness, or + one knows not how to define it, I <i>cannot help</i> being uncomfortable in + having to do this,—it is impossible. Not that I distrust <i>you</i>—you + are the last in the world I could distrust: and then (although you may + be sceptical) I am naturally given to trust ... to a fault ... as some + say, or to a sin, as some reproach me:—and then again, if I were ever + such a distruster, it could not be of <i>you</i>. But if you knew me—! I + will tell you! if one of my brothers omits coming to this room for two + days, ... I never ask why it happened! if my own father omits coming + up-stairs to say 'good night,' I never say a word; and not from + indifference. Do try to make out these readings of me as a <i>dixit + Casaubonus</i>; and don't throw me down as a corrupt text, nor convict me + for an infidel which I am not. On the contrary I am grateful and happy + to believe that you like to come here; and even if you came here as a + pure act of charity and pity to me, as long as you <i>chose to come</i> I + should not be too proud to be grateful and happy still. I could not be + proud to <i>you</i>, and I hope you will not fancy such a possibility, + which is the remotest of all. Yes, and <i>I</i> am anxious to ask you to be + wholly generous and leave off such an interpreting philosophy as you + made use of yesterday, and forgive me when I beg you to fix your own + days for coming for the future. Will you? It is the same thing in one + way. If you like to come really every week, there is no hindrance to + it—you can do it—and the privilege and obligation remain equally + mine:—and if you name a day for coming on any week, where there is an + obstacle on my side, you will learn it from me in a moment. Why I + might as well charge <i>you</i> with distrusting <i>me</i>, because you persist + in making me choose the days. And it is not for me to do it, but for + you—I must feel that—and I cannot help chafing myself against the + thought that for me to begin to fix days in this way, just because you + have quick impulses (like all imaginative persons), and wish me to do + it now, may bring me to the catastrophe of asking you to come when you + would rather not, ... which, as you say truly, would not be an + important vexation to you; but to me would be worse than vexation; to + <i>me</i>—and therefore I shrink from the very imagination of the + possibility of such a thing, and ask you to bear with me and let it be + as I prefer ... left to your own choice of the moment. And bear with + me above all—because this shows no want of faith in you ... none ... + but comes from a simple fact (with its ramifications) ... that you + know little of me personally yet, and that <i>you guess</i>, even, but very + little of the influence of a peculiar experience over me and out of + me; and if I wanted a proof of this, we need not seek further than the + very point of discussion, and the hard worldly thoughts you thought I + was thinking of you yesterday,—I, who thought not one of them! But I + am so used to discern the correcting and ministering angels by the + same footsteps on the ground, that it is not wonderful I should look + down there at any approach of a <span title="philia taxis">φιλια ταξις</span> whatever to this + personal <i>me</i>. Have I not been ground down to browns and blacks? and + is it my fault if I am not green? Not that it is my <i>complaint</i>—I + should not be justified in complaining; I believe, as I told you, that + there is more gladness than sadness in the world—that is, generally: + and if some natures have to be refined by the sun, and some by the + furnace (the less genial ones) both means are to be recognised as + <i>good</i>, ... however different in pleasurableness and painfulness, and + though furnace-fire leaves scorched streaks upon the fruit. I assured + you there was nothing I had any power of teaching you: and there <i>is</i> + nothing, except grief!—which I would not teach you, you know, if I + had the occasion granted. +</p> +<p> + It is a multitude of words about nothing at all, ... this—but I am + like Mariana in the moated grange and sit listening too often to the + mouse in the wainscot. Be as forbearing as you can—and believe how + profoundly it touches me that you should care to come here at all, + much more, so often! and try to understand that if I did not write as + you half asked, it was just because I failed at the moment to get up + enough pomp and circumstance to write on purpose to certify the + important fact of my being a little stronger or a little weaker on one + particular morning. That I am always ready and rejoiced to write to + you, you know perfectly well, and I have proved, by 'superfluity of + naughtiness' and prolixity through some twenty posts:—and this, and + therefore, you will agree altogether to attribute no more to me on + these counts, and determine to read me no more backwards with your + Hebrew, putting in your own vowel points without my leave! Shall it be + so? +</p> +<p> + Here is a letter grown from a note which it meant to be—and I have + been interrupted in the midst of it, or it should have gone to you + earlier. Let what I have said in it of myself pass unquestioned and + unnoticed, because it is of <i>me</i> and not of <i>you</i>, ... and, if in any + wise lunatical, all the talking and writing in the world will not put + the implied moon into another quarter. Only be patient with me a + little, ... and let us have a smooth ground for the poems which I am + foreseeing the sight of with such pride and delight—Such pride and + delight! +</p> +<p> + And one thing ... which is chief, though it seems to come last!... you + <i>will</i> have advice (will you not?) if that pain does not grow much + better directly? It cannot be prudent or even <i>safe</i> to let a pain in + the head go on so long, and no remedy be attempted for it, ... and you + cannot be sure that it is a merely nervous pain and that it may not + have consequences; and this, quite apart from the consideration of + suffering. So you will see some one with an opinion to give, and take + it? <i>Do</i>, I beseech you. You will not say 'no'? Also ... if on + Wednesday you should be less well than usual, you will come on + Thursday instead, I hope, ... seeing that it must be right for you to + be quiet and silent when you suffer so, and a journey into London can + let you be neither. Otherwise, I hold to my day, ... Wednesday. And + may God bless you my dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + You are right I see, nearly everywhere, if not quite everywhere in the + criticisms—but of course I have not looked very closely—that is, I + have read your papers but not in connection with a <i>my</i> side of the + argument—but I shall lose the post after all. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, June 7, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I ventured to hope this morning might bring me news of you—First + East-winds on you, then myself, then those criticisms!—I do assure + you I am properly apprehensive. How are you? May I go on Wednesday + without too much <span title="anthadia">ανθαδια</span>. +</p> +<p> + Pray remember what I said and wrote, to the effect that my exceptions + were, in almost every case, to the 'reading'—not to your version of + it: but I have not specified the particular ones—not written down the + Greek, of my suggested translations—have I? And if you do not find + them in the margin of your copy, how you must wonder! Thus, in the + last speech but one, of Hermes, I prefer Porson and Blomfield's + <span title="ei mêd' atychôn ti chala maniôn">ει μηδ' ατυχων τι χαλα μανιων</span>;—to the old combinations + that include <span title="eutychê">ευτυχη</span>—though there is no MS. authority for + emendation, it seems. But in what respect does Prometheus 'fare + <i>well</i>,' or 'better' even, since the beginning? And is it not the old + argument over again, that when a man <i>fails</i> he should repent of his + ways?—And while thinking of Hermes, let me say that '<span title="mêde moi diplas odous prosbalês">μηδε μοι διπλας οδους προσβαλης</span>' is surely—'Don't subject me to the trouble + of a second journey ... by paying no attention to the first.' So says + Scholiast A, and so backs him Scholiast B, especially created, it + should appear, to show there could be <i>in rerum naturâ</i> such another + as his predecessor. A few other remarks occur to me, which I will tell + you if you please; <i>now</i>, I really want to know how you are, and write + for that. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, June 9, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Just after my note left, yours came—I will try so to answer it as to + please you; and I begin by promising cheerfully to do all you bid me + about naming days &c. I do believe we are friends now and for ever. + There can be no reason, therefore, that I should cling tenaciously to + any one or other time of meeting, as if, losing that, I lost + everything—and, for the future, I will provide against sudden + engagements, outrageous weather &c., to your heart's content. Nor am I + going to except against here and there a little wrong I could get up, + as when you <i>imply</i> from my quick impulses and the like. No, my dear + friend—for I seem sure I shall have quite, quite time enough to do + myself justice in your eyes—Let time show! +</p> +<p> + Perhaps I feel none the less sorely, when you 'thank' me for such + company as mine, that I cannot avoid confessing to myself that it + would not be so absolutely out of my power, perhaps, to contrive + really and deserve thanks in a certain acceptation—I <i>might</i> really + <i>try</i>, at all events, and amuse you a little better, when I do have + the opportunity,—and I <i>do not</i>—but there is the thing! It is all of + a piece—I <i>do not</i> seek your friendship in order to do you good—any + good—only to do myself good. Though I <i>would</i>, God knows, do that + too. +</p> +<p> + Enough of this. +</p> +<p> + I am much better, indeed,—but will certainly follow your advice + should the pain return. And you—you have tried a new journey from + your room, have you not? +</p> +<p> + Do recollect, at any turn, any chance so far in my favour,—that I am + here and yours should you want any fetching and carrying in this + outside London world. Your brothers may have their own business to + mind, Mr. Kenyon is at New York, we will suppose; here am I—what + else, <i>what else</i> makes me count my cleverness to you, as I know I + have done more than once, by word and letter, but the real wish to be + set at work? I should have, I hope, better taste than to tell any + everyday acquaintance, who could not go out, one single morning even, + on account of a headache, that the weather was delightful, much less + that I had been walking five miles and meant to run ten—yet to you I + boasted once of polking and waltzing and more—but then would it not + be a very superfluous piece of respect in the four-footed bird to keep + his wings to himself because his Master Oceanos could fly forsooth? + Whereas he begins to wave a flap and show how ready they are to be + off—for what else were the good of him? Think of this—and +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Know me for yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + For good you are, to those notes—you shall have more,—that is, the + rest—on Wednesday then, at 3, except as you except. God bless you. +</p> +<p> + Oh, let me tell you—I suppose Mr. Horne must be in town—as I + received a letter two days ago, from the contriver of some literary + society or other who had before written to get me to belong to it, + protesting <i>against</i> my reasons for refusing, and begging that 'at all + events I would suspend my determination till I had been visited by Mr. + H. on the subject'—and, as they can hardly mean to bring him express + from the Drachenfels for just that, he is returned no doubt—and as he + is your friend, I take the opportunity of mentioning the course I + shall pursue with him or any other friend of yours I may meet,—(and + everybody else, I may add—) the course I understand you to desire, + with respect to our own intimacy. While I may acknowledge, I believe, + that I correspond with you, I shall not, in any case, suffer it to be + known that I see, or have seen you. This I just remind you of, lest + any occasion of embarrassment should arise, for a moment, from your + not being quite sure how <i>I</i> had acted in any case.—Con che, le bacio + le mani—a rivederla! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, June 10, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I must thank you by one word for all your kindness and + consideration—which could not be greater; nor more felt by me. In the + first place, afterwards (if that should not be Irish dialect) do + understand that my letter passed from my hands to go to yours on + <i>Friday</i>, but was thrown aside carelessly down stairs and 'covered up' + they say, so as not to be seen until late on Saturday; and I can only + humbly hope to have been cross enough about it (having conscientiously + tried) to secure a little more accuracy another time.—And then, ... + if ever I should want anything done or found, ... (a roc's egg or the + like) you may believe me that I shall not scruple to ask you to be the + finder; but at this moment I want nothing, indeed, except your poems; + and that is quite the truth. Now do consider and think what I could + possibly want in your 'outside London world'; you, who are the 'Genius + of the lamp'!—Why if you light it and let me read your romances, &c., + by it, is not that the best use for it, and am I likely to look for + another? Only I shall remember what you say, gratefully and seriously; + and if ever I should have a good fair opportunity of giving you + trouble (as if I had not done it already!), you may rely upon my evil + intentions; even though dear Mr. Kenyon should not actually be at New + York, ... which he is not, I am glad to say, as I saw him on Saturday. +</p> +<p> + Which reminds me that <i>he</i> knows of your having been here, of course! + and will not mention it; as he understood from me that <i>you</i> would + not.—Thank you! Also there was an especial reason which constrained + me, on pain of appearing a great hypocrite, to tell Miss Mitford the + bare fact of my having seen you—and reluctantly I did it, though + placing some hope in her promise of discretion. And how necessary the + discretion is, will appear in the awful statistical fact of our having + at this moment, as my sisters were calculating yesterday, some forty + relations in London—to say nothing of the right wing of the enemy. + For Mr. Horne, I could have told you, and really I thought I <i>had</i> + told you of his being in England. +</p> +<p> + Last paragraph of all is, that I <i>don't want to be amused</i>, ... or + rather that I <i>am</i> amused by everything and anything. Why surely, + surely, you have some singular ideas about me! So, till to-morrow, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Instead of writing this note to you yesterday, as should have been, I + went down-stairs—or rather was carried—and am not the worse. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, June 14, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, the poem <i>is</i> too good in certain respects for the prizes given + in colleges, (when all the pure parsley goes naturally to the + rabbits), and has a great deal of beauty here and there in image and + expression. Still I do not quite agree with you that it reaches the + Tennyson standard any wise; and for the blank verse, I cannot for a + moment think it comparable to one of the grand passages in 'Oenone,' + and 'Arthur' and the like. In fact I seem to hear more in that latter + blank verse than you do, ... to hear not only a 'mighty line' as in + Marlowe, but a noble full orbicular wholeness in complete + passages—which always struck me as the mystery of music and great + peculiarity in Tennyson's versification, inasmuch as he attains to + these complete effects without that shifting of the pause practised by + the masters, ... Shelley and others. A 'linked music' in which there + are no links!—<i>that</i>, you would take to be a contradiction—and yet + something like that, my ear has always seemed to perceive; and I have + wondered curiously again and again how there could be so much union + and no fastening. Only of course it is not model versification—and + for dramatic purposes, it must be admitted to be bad. +</p> +<p> + Which reminds me to be astonished for the second time how you could + think such a thing of me as that I wanted to read only your lyrics, + ... or that I 'preferred the lyrics' ... or something barbarous in + that way? You don't think me 'ambidexter,' or 'either-handed' ... and + both hands open for what poems you will vouchsafe to me; and yet if + you would let me see anything you may have in a readable state by you, + ... 'The Flight of the Duchess' ... or act or scene of 'The Soul's + Tragedy,' ... I shall be so glad and grateful to you! Oh—if you + change your mind and choose to be <i>bien prié</i>, I will grant it is your + right, and begin my liturgy directly. But this is not teazing (in the + intention of it!) and I understand all about the transcription, and + the inscrutableness of rough copies,—that is, if you write as I do, + so that my guardian angel or M. Champollion cannot read what is + written. Only whatever they can, (remember!) <i>I</i> can: and you are not + to mind trusting me with the cacistography possible to mortal readers. +</p> +<p> + The sun shines so that nobody dares complain of the east wind—and + indeed I am better altogether. May God bless you, my dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, June 14, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When I ask my wise self what I really do remember of the Prize poem, + the answer is—both of Chapman's lines a-top, quite worth any prize + for their quoter—then, the good epithet of 'Green Europe' contrasting + with Africa—then, deep in the piece, a picture of a Vestal in a + vault, where I see a dipping and winking lamp plainest, and last of + all the ominous 'all was dark' that dismisses you. I read the poem + many years ago, and never since, though I have an impression that the + versification is good, yet from your commentary I see I must have said + a good deal more in its praise than that. But have you not discovered + by this time that I go on talking with my thoughts away? +</p> +<p> + I know, I have always been jealous of my own musical faculty (I can + write music).—Now that I see the uselessness of such jealousy, and am + for loosing and letting it go, it may be cramped possibly. Your music + is more various and exquisite than any modern writer's to my ear. One + should study the mechanical part of the art, as nearly all that there + is to be studied—for the more one sits and thinks over the creative + process, the more it confirms itself as 'inspiration,' nothing more + nor less. Or, at worst, you write down old inspirations, what you + remember of them ... but with <i>that</i> it begins. 'Reflection' is + exactly what it names itself—a <i>re</i>-presentation, in scattered rays + from every angle of incidence, of what first of all became present in + a great light, a whole one. So tell me how these lights are born, if + you can! But I can tell anybody how to make melodious verses—let him + do it therefore—it should be exacted of all writers. +</p> +<p> + You do not understand what a new feeling it is for me to have someone + who is to like my verses or I shall not ever like them after! So far + differently was I circumstanced of old, that I used rather to go about + for a subject of offence to people; writing ugly things in order to + warn the ungenial and timorous off my grounds at once. I shall never + do so again at least! As it is, I will bring all I dare, in as great + quantities as I can—if not next time, after then—certainly. I must + make an end, print this Autumn my last four 'Bells,' Lyrics, Romances, + 'The Tragedy,' and 'Luna,' and then go on with a whole heart to my own + Poem—indeed, I have just resolved not to begin any new song, even, + till this grand clearance is made—I will get the Tragedy transcribed + to bring— +</p> +<p> + 'To bring!' Next Wednesday—if you know how happy you make me! may I + not say <i>that</i>, my dear friend, when I feel it from my soul? +</p> +<p> + I thank God that you are better: do pray make fresh endeavours to + profit by this partial respite of the weather! All about you must urge + that: but even from my distance some effect might come of such wishes. + But you <i>are</i> better—look so and speak so! God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + You let 'flowers be sent you in a letter,' every one knows, and this + hot day draws out our very first yellow rose. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, June 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, I quite believe as you do that what is called the 'creative + process' in works of Art, is just inspiration and no less—which made + somebody say to me not long since; And so you think that Shakespeare's + 'Othello' was of the effluence of the Holy Ghost?'—rather a startling + deduction, ... only not quite as final as might appear to somebodies + perhaps. At least it does not prevent my going on to agree with the + saying of <i>Spiridion</i>, ... do you remember?... 'Tout ce que l'homme + appelle inspiration, je l'appelle aussi revelation,' ... if there is + not something too self-evident in it after all—my sole objection! And + is it not true that your inability to analyse the mental process in + question, is one of the proofs of the fact of inspiration?—as the + gods were known of old by not being seen to move their feet,—coming + and going in an equal sweep of radiance.—And still more wonderful + than the first transient great light you speak of, ... and far beyond + any work of <i>re</i>flection, except in the pure analytical sense in which + you use the word, ... appears that gathering of light on light upon + particular points, as you go (in composition) step by step, till you + get intimately near to things, and see them in a fullness and + clearness, and an intense trust in the truth of them which you have + not in any sunshine of noon (called <i>real</i>!) but which you have <i>then</i> + ... and struggle to communicate:—an ineffectual struggle with most + writers (oh, how ineffectual!) and when effectual, issuing in the + 'Pippa Passes,' and other master-pieces of the world. +</p> +<p> + You will tell me what you mean exactly by being jealous of your own + music? You said once that you had had a false notion of music, or had + practised it according to the false notions of other people: but did + you mean besides that you ever had meant to despise music + altogether—because <i>that</i>, it is hard to set about trying to believe + of you indeed. And then, you <i>can</i> praise my verses for music?—Why, + are you aware that people blame me constantly for wanting + harmony—from Mr. Boyd who moans aloud over the indisposition of my + 'trochees' ... and no less a person than Mr. Tennyson, who said to + somebody who repeated it, that in the want of harmony lay the chief + defect of the poems, 'although it might verily be retrieved, as he + could fancy that I had an ear by nature.' Well—but I am pleased that + you should praise me—right or wrong—I mean, whether I am right or + wrong in being pleased! and I say so to you openly, although my belief + is that you are under a vow to our Lady of Loretto to make giddy with + all manner of high vanities, some head, ... not too strong for such + things, but too low for them, ... before you see again the embroidery + on her divine petticoat. Only there's a flattery so far beyond praise + ... even <i>your</i> praise—as where you talk of your verses being liked + &c., and of your being happy to bring them here, ... that is scarcely + a lawful weapon; and see if the Madonna may not signify so much to + you!—Seriously, you will not hurry too uncomfortably, or + uncomfortably at all, about the transcribing? Another day, you know, + will do as well—and patience is possible to me, if not 'native to the + soil.' +</p> +<p> + Also I am behaving very well in going out into the noise; not quite + out of doors yet, on account of the heat—and I am better as you say, + without any doubt at all, and stronger—only my looks are a little + deceitful; and people are apt to be heated and flushed in this + weather, one hour, to look a little more ghastly an hour or two after. + Not that it <i>is</i> not true of me that I am better, mind! Because I am. +</p> +<p> + The 'flower in the letter' was from one of my sisters—from Arabel + (though many of these poems are <i>ideal</i> ... will you understand?) and + your rose came quite alive and fresh, though in act of dropping its + beautiful leaves, because of having to come to me instead of living on + in your garden, as it intended. But I thank you—for this, and all, my + dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, June 19, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When I next see you, do not let me go on and on to my confusion about + matters I am more or less ignorant of, but always ignorant. I tell + you plainly I only trench on them, and intrench in them, from + gaucherie, pure and respectable ... I should certainly grow + instructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if + deprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I + shall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am + thinking all the while, 'now I will just ask simply, what flattery + there was,' &c. &c., which, as I had not courage to say then, I keep + to myself for shame now. This I will say, then—wait and know me + better, as you will one long day at the end. +</p> +<p> + Why I write now, is because you did not promise, as before, to let me + know how you are—this morning is miserably cold again—Will you tell + me, at your own time? +</p> +<p> + God bless you, my dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, June 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + If on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleasure to + cultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect your desire—and + indeed the point of the deficiency in question being far above my + sight I am not qualified either to deny or assert the existence of it; + so you are free to have it all your own way. +</p> +<p> + About the 'flattery' however, there is a difference; and I must deny a + little having ever used such a word ... as far as I can recollect, and + I have been trying to recollect, ... as that word of flattery. Perhaps + I said something about your having vowed to make me vain by writing + this or that of my liking your verses and so on—and perhaps I said it + too lightly ... which happened because when one doesn't know whether + to laugh or to cry, it is far best, as a general rule, to laugh. But + the serious truth is that it was all nonsense together what I wrote, + and that, instead of talking of your making me vain, I should have + talked (if it had been done sincerely) of your humbling me—inasmuch + as nothing does humble anybody so much as being lifted up too high. + You know what vaulting Ambition did once for himself? and when it is + done for him by another, his fall is still heavier. And one moral of + all this general philosophy is, that if when your poems come, you + persist in giving too much importance to what I may have courage to + say of this or of that in them, you will make me a dumb critic and I + shall have no help for my dumbness. So I tell you beforehand—nothing + extenuating nor exaggerating nor putting down in malice. I know so + much of myself as to be sure of it. Even as it is, the 'insolence' + which people blame me for and praise me for, ... the 'recklessness' + which my friends talk of with mitigating countenances ... seems + gradually going and going—and really it would not be very strange + (without that) if <i>I</i> who was born a hero worshipper and have so + continued, and who always recognised your genius, should find it + impossible to bring out critical doxies on the workings of it. Well—I + shall do what I can—as far as <i>impressions</i> go, you understand—and + <i>you</i> must promise not to attach too much importance to anything said. + So that is a covenant, my dear friend!— +</p> +<p> + And I am really gaining strength—and I will not complain of the + weather. As long as the thermometer keeps above sixty I am content for + one; and the roses are not quite dead yet, which they would have been + in the heat. And last and not least—may I ask if you were told that + the pain in the head was not important (or was) in the causes, ... and + was likely to be well soon? or was not? I am at the end. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Upon second or third thoughts, isn't it true that you are a little + suspicious of me? suspicious at least of suspiciousness? +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, June 23, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + And if I am 'suspicious of your suspiciousness,' who gives cause, + pray? The matter was long ago settled, I thought, when you first took + exception to what I said about higher and lower, and I consented to + this much—that you should help seeing, if you could, our true + intellectual and moral relation each to the other, so long as you + would allow <i>me</i> to see what <i>is</i> there, fronting me. 'Is my eye evil + because yours is not good?' My own friend, if I wished to 'make you + vain,' if having 'found the Bower' I did really address myself to the + wise business of spoiling its rose-roof,—I think that at least where + there was such a will, there would be also something not unlike a + way,—that I should find a proper hooked stick to tear down flowers + with, and write you other letters than these—quite, quite others, I + feel—though I am far from going to imagine, even for a moment, what + might be the precise prodigy—like the notable Son of Zeus, that <i>was</i> + to have been, and done the wonders, only he did not, because &c. &c. +</p> +<p> + But I have a restless head to-day, and so let you off easily. Well, + you ask me about it, that head, and I am not justified in being + positive when my Doctor is dubious; as for the causes, they are + neither superfluity of study, nor fancy, nor care, nor any special + naughtiness that I know how to amend. So if I bring you 'nothing to + signify' on Wednesday ... though I hope to do more than that ... you + will know exactly why it happens. I will finish and transcribe the + 'Flight of the Duchess' since you spoke of that first. +</p> +<p> + I am truly happy to hear that your health improves still. +</p> +<p> + For me, going out does me good—reading, writing, and, what is + odd,—infinitely most of all, <i>sleeping</i> do me the harm,—never any + very great harm. And all the while I am yours +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, June 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I had begun to be afraid that I did not deserve to have my questions + answered; and I was afraid of asking them over again. But it is worse + to be afraid that you are not better at all in any essential manner + (after all your assurances) and that the medical means have failed so + far. Did you go to somebody who knows anything?—because there is no + excuse, you see, in common sense, for not having the best and most + experienced opinion when there is a choice of advice—and I am + confident that that pain should not be suffered to go on without + something being done. What I said about <i>nerves</i>, related to what you + had told me of your mother's suffering and what you had fancied of the + relation of it to your own, and not that I could be thinking about + imaginary complaints—I wish I could. Not (either) that I believe in + the relation ... because such things are not hereditary, are they? and + the bare coincidence is improbable. Well, but, I wanted particularly + to say this—<i>Don't bring the 'Duchess' with you on Wednesday.</i> I + shall not expect anything, I write distinctly to tell you—and I would + far far rather that you did not bring it. You see it is just as I + thought—for that whether too much thought or study did or did not + bring on the illness, ... yet you admit that reading and writing + increase it ... as they would naturally do any sort of pain in the + head—therefore if you will but be in earnest and try to get well + <i>first</i>, we will do the 'Bells' afterwards, and there will be time for + a whole peal of them, I hope and trust, before the winter. Now do + admit that this is reasonable, and agree reasonably to it. And if it + does you good to go out and take exercise, why not go out and take it? + nay, why not go <i>away</i> and take it? Why not try the effect of a little + change of air—or even of a great change of air—if it should be + necessary, or even expedient? Anything is better, you know ... or if + you don't know, <i>I</i> know—than to be ill, really, seriously—I mean + for <i>you</i> to be ill, who have so much to do and to enjoy in the world + yet ... and all those bells waiting to be hung! So that if you will + agree to be well first, I will promise to be ready afterwards to help + you in any thing I can do ... transcribing or anything ... to get the + books through the press in the shortest of times—and I am capable of + a great deal of that sort of work without being tired, having the + habit of writing in any sort of position, and the long habit, ... + since, before I was ill even, I never used to write at a table (or + scarcely ever) but on the arm of a chair, or on the seat of one, + sitting myself on the floor, and calling myself a Lollard for dignity. + So you will put by your 'Duchess' ... will you not? or let me see just + that one sheet—if one should be written—which is finished? ... up to + this moment, you understand? finished <i>now</i>. +</p> +<p> + And if I have tired and teazed you with all these words it is a bad + opportunity to take—and yet I will persist in saying through good and + bad opportunities that I never did 'give cause' as you say, to your + being 'suspicious of my suspiciousness' as I believe I said before. I + deny my 'suspiciousness' altogether—it is not one of my faults. Nor + is it quite my fault that you and I should always be quarrelling about + over-appreciations and under-appreciations—and after all I have no + interest nor wish, I do assure you, to depreciate myself—and you are + not to think that I have the remotest claim to the Monthyon prize for + good deeds in the way of modesty of self-estimation. Only when I know + you better, as you talk of ... and when <i>you</i> know <i>me</i> too well, ... + the right and the wrong of these conclusions will appear in a fuller + light than ever so much arguing can produce now. Is it unkindly + written of me? <i>no</i>—I <i>feel</i> it is not!—and that 'now and ever we + are friends,' (just as you think) <i>I</i> think besides and am happy in + thinking so, and could not be distrustful of you if I tried. So may + God bless you, my ever dear friend—and mind to forget the 'Duchess' + and to remember every good counsel!—Not that I do particularly + confide in the medical oracles. They never did much more for <i>me</i> + than, when my pulse was above a hundred and forty with fever, to give + me digitalis to make me weak—and, when I could not move without + fainting (with weakness), to give me quinine to make me feverish + again. Yes—and they could tell from the stethoscope, how very little + was really wrong in me ... if it were not on a vital organ—and how I + should certainly live ... if I didn't die sooner. But then, nothing + <i>has</i> power over affections of the chest, except God and his + winds—and I do hope that an obvious quick remedy may be found for + your head. But <i>do</i> give up the writing and all that does harm!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, my dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Miss Mitford talked of spending Wednesday with me—and I have put it + off to Thursday:—and if you should hear from Mr. Chorley that he is + coming to see <i>her and me together on any day</i>, do understand that it + was entirely her proposition and not mine, and that certainly it won't + be acceded to, as far as <i>I</i> am concerned; as I have explained to her + finally. I have been vexed about it—but she can see him down-stairs + as she has done before—and if she calls me perverse and capricious + (which she will do) I shall stop the reflection by thanking her again + and again (as I can do sincerely) for her kindness and goodness in + coming to see me herself, so far!— +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning,<br> +[Post-mark, June 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + (So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that <i>first</i> letter, + on Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes + after, its natural fate accordingly. Then on Saturday I thought to + take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the + morning—about town too: last post-hour from this Thule of a + suburb—4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on + Mondays;—and then my real letter set out with the others—and, it + should seem, set at rest a 'wonder whether thy friend's questions + deserved answering'—de-served—answer-ing—!) +</p> +<p> + Parenthetically so much—I want most, though, to tell you—(leaving + out any slightest attempt at thanking you) that I am much better, + quite well to-day—that my doctor has piloted me safely through two or + three illnesses, and knows all about me, I do think—and that he talks + confidently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of—and + <i>has</i> made a good beginning if I may judge by to-day. As for going + abroad, that is just the thing I most want to avoid (for a reason not + so hard to guess, perhaps, as why my letter was slow in arriving). +</p> +<p> + So, till to-morrow,—my light through the dark week. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God ever bless you, dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, June 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + What will you think when I write to ask you <i>not</i> to come to-morrow, + Wednesday; but ... on Friday perhaps, instead? But do see how it is; + and judge if it is to be helped. +</p> +<p> + I have waited hour after hour, hoping to hear from Miss Mitford that + she would agree to take Thursday in change for Wednesday,—and just as + I begin to wonder whether she can have received my letter at all, or + whether she may not have been vexed by it into taking a vengeance and + adhering to her own devices; (for it appealed to her esprit de sexe on + the undeniable axiom of women having their way ... and she might + choose to act it out!) just as I wonder over all this, and consider + what a confusion of the elements it would be if you came and found her + here, and Mr. Chorley at the door perhaps, waiting for some of the + light of her countenance;—comes a note from Mr. Kenyon, to the + effect that <i>he</i> will be here at four o'clock P.M.—and comes a final + note from my aunt Mrs. Hedley (supposed to be at Brighton for several + months) to the effect that <i>she</i> will be here at twelve o'clock, M.!! + So do observe the constellation of adverse stars ... or the covey of + 'bad birds,' as the Romans called them, and that there is no choice, + but to write as I am writing. It can't be helped—can it? For take + away the doubt about Miss Mitford, and Mr. Kenyon remains—and take + away Mr. Kenyon, and there is Mrs. Hedley—and thus it <i>must be for + Friday</i> ... which will learn to be a fortunate day for the + nonce—unless Saturday should suit you better. I do not speak of + Thursday, because of the doubt about Miss Mitford—and if any harm + should happen to Friday, I will write again; but if you do not hear + again, and are able to come then, you <i>will</i> come perhaps then. +</p> +<p> + In the meantime I thank you for the better news in your note—if it is + really, really to be trusted in—but you know, you have said so often + that you were better and better, without being really better, that it + makes people ... 'suspicious.' Yet it is full amends for the + disappointment to hope ... here I must break off or be too late. May + God bless you my dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">12. Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, June 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Pomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and see into, but not + hearts,—so why should I try and speak? +</p> +<p> + Friday is best day because nearest, but Saturday is next best—it is + next near, you know: if I get no note, therefore, Friday is my day. +</p> +<p> + Now is Post-time,—which happens properly. +</p> +<p> + God bless you, and so your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, June 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + After all it must be for Saturday, as Mrs. Hedley comes again on + Friday, to-morrow, from <i>New Cross</i>,—or just beyond it, Eltham + Park—to London for a few days, on account of the illness of one of + her children. I write in the greatest haste after Miss Mitford has + left me ... and <i>so</i> tired! to say this, that if you can and will come + on Saturday, ... or if not on Monday or Tuesday, there is no reason + against it. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your friend always,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, June 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Let me make haste and write down <i>To-morrow</i>, Saturday, and not later, + lest my selfishness be thoroughly got under in its struggle with a + better feeling that tells me you must be far too tired for another + visitor this week. +</p> +<p> + What shall I decide on? +</p> +<p> + Well—Saturday is said—but I will stay not quite so long, nor talk + nearly so loud as of old-times; nor will you, if you understand + anything of me, fail to send down word should you be at all + indisposed. I should not have the heart to knock at the door unless I + really believed you would do that. Still saying this and providing + against the other does not amount, I well know, to the generosity, or + justice rather, of staying away for a day or two altogether. But—what + 'a day or two' may not bring forth! Change to you, change to me— +</p> +<p> + Not all of me, however, can change, thank God— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours ever</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + Or, write, as last night, if needs be: Monday, Tuesday is not so long + to wait. Will you write? +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, June 28, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You are very kind and always—but really <i>that</i> does not seem a good + reason against your coming to-morrow—so come, if it should not rain. + If it rains, it <i>concludes</i> for Monday ... or Tuesday; whichever may + be clear of rain. I was tired on Wednesday by the confounding + confusion of more voices than usual in this room; but the effect + passed off, and though Miss Mitford was with me for hours yesterday I + am not unwell to-day. And pray speak <i>bona verba</i> about the awful + things which are possible between this now and Wednesday. You continue + to be better, I do hope? I am forced to the brevity you see, by the + post on one side, and my friends on the other, who have so long + overstayed the coming of your note—but it is enough to assure you + that you will do no harm by coming—only give pleasure. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, my dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[June 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I send back the prize poems which have been kept far too long even if + I do not make excuses for the keeping—but our sins are not always to + be measured by our repentance for them. Then I am well enough this + morning to have thought of going out till they told me it was not at + all a right day for it ... too windy ... soft and delightful as the + air seems to be—particularly after yesterday, when we had some winter + back again in an episode. And the roses do not die; which is quite + magnanimous of them considering their reverses; and their buds are + coming out in most exemplary resignation—like birds singing in a + cage. Now that the windows may be open, the flowers take heart to live + a little in this room. +</p> +<p> + And think of my forgetting to tell you on Saturday that I had known of + a letter being received by somebody from Miss Martineau, who is at + Ambleside at this time and so entranced with the lakes and mountains + as to be dreaming of taking or making a house among them, to live in + for the rest of her life. Mrs. Trollope, you may have heard, had + something of the same nympholepsy—no, her daughter was 'settled' in + the neighbourhood—<i>that</i> is the more likely reason for Mrs. Trollope! + and the spirits of the hills conspired against her the first winter + and almost slew her with a fog and drove her away to your Italy where + the Oreadocracy has gentler manners. And Miss Martineau is practising + mesmerism and miracles on all sides she says, and counts on Archbishop + Whately as a new adherent. I even fancy that he has been to see her in + the character of a convert. All this from Mr. Kenyon. +</p> +<p> + There's a strange wild book called the Autobiography of Heinrich + Stilling ... one of those true devout deep-hearted Germans who believe + everything, and so are nearer the truth, I am sure, than the wise who + believe nothing; but rather over-German sometimes, and redolent of + sauerkraut—and <i>he</i> gives a tradition ... somewhere between mesmerism + and mysticism, ... of a little spirit with gold shoebuckles, who was + his familiar spirit and appeared only in the sunshine I think ... + mottling it over with its feet, perhaps, as a child might snow. Take + away the shoebuckles and I believe in the little spirit—don't <i>you</i>? + But these English mesmerists make the shoebuckles quite conspicuous + and insist on them broadly; and the Archbishops Whately may be drawn + by <i>them</i> (who can tell?) more than by the little spirit itself. How + is your head to-day? now really, and nothing extenuating? I will not + ask of poems, till the 'quite well' is <i>authentic</i>. May God bless you + always! my dear friend! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + After all the book must go another day. I live in chaos do you know? + and I am too hurried at this moment ... yes it is here. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning. +</p> +<p> + How are you—may I hope to hear soon? +</p> +<p> + I don't know exactly what possessed me to set my next day so far off + as Saturday—as it was said, however, so let it be. And I will bring + the rest of the 'Duchess'—four or five hundred lines,—'heu, herba + mala crescit'—(as I once saw mournfully pencilled on a white wall at + Asolo)—but will you tell me if you quite remember the main of the + <i>first</i> part—(<i>parts</i> there are none except in the necessary process + of chopping up to suit the limits of a magazine—and I gave them as + much as I could transcribe at a sudden warning)—because, if you + please, I can bring the whole, of course. +</p> +<p> + After seeing <i>you</i>, that Saturday, I was caught up by a friend and + carried to see Vidocq—who did the honours of his museum of knives and + nails and hooks that have helped great murderers to their purposes—he + scarcely admits, I observe, an implement with only one attestation to + its efficacy; but the one or two exceptions rather justify his + latitude in their favour—thus one little sort of dessert knife <i>did</i> + only take <i>one</i> life.... 'But then,' says Vidocq, 'it was the man's + own mother's life, with fifty-two blows, and all for' (I think) + 'fifteen francs she had got?' So prattles good-naturedly Vidocq—one + of his best stories of that Lacénaire—'jeune homme d'un caractère + fort avenant—mais c'était un poète,' quoth he, turning sharp on <i>me</i> + out of two or three other people round him. +</p> +<p> + Here your letter breaks in, and sunshine too. +</p> +<p> + Why do you send me that book—not let me take it? What trouble for + nothing! +</p> +<p> + An old French friend of mine, a dear foolish, very French heart and + soul, is coming presently—his poor brains are whirling with mesmerism + in which he believes, as in all other unbelief. He and I are to dine + alone (I have not seen him these two years)—and I shall never be able + to keep from driving the great wedge right through his breast and + descending lower, from riveting his two foolish legs to the wintry + chasm; for I that stammer and answer hap-hazard with you, get + proportionately valiant and voluble with a mere cupful of Diderot's + rinsings, and a man into the bargain. +</p> +<p> + If you were prevented from leaving the house yesterday, assuredly + to-day you will never attempt such a thing—the wind, rain—all is + against it: I trust you will not make the first experiment except + under really favourable auspices ... for by its success you will + naturally be induced to go on or leave off—Still you are <i>better</i>! I + fully believe, dare to believe, <i>that</i> will continue. As for me, since + you ask—find me but something <i>to do</i>, and see if I shall not be + well!—Though I <i>am</i> well now almost. +</p> +<p> + How good you are to my roses—they are not of my making, to be sure. + Never, by the way, did Miss Martineau work such a miracle as I now + witness in the garden—I gathered at Rome, close to the fountain of + Egeria, a handful of <i>fennel</i>-seeds from the most indisputable plant + of fennel I ever chanced upon—and, lo, they are come up ... hemlock, + or something akin! In two places, moreover. Wherein does hemlock + resemble fennel? How could I mistake? No wonder that a stone's cast + off from that Egeria's fountain is the Temple of the God Ridiculus. +</p> +<p> + Well, on Saturday then—at three: and I will certainly bring the + verses you mention—and trust to find you still better. +</p> +<p> + Vivi felice—my dear friend, God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday-Thursday Evening<br> +[Post-mark, July 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Yes—I know the first part of the 'Duchess' and have it here—and for + the rest of the poem, don't mind about being very legible, or even + legible in the usual sense; and remember how it is my boast to be able + to read all such manuscript writing as never is read by people who + don't like caviare. Now you won't mind? really I rather like blots + than otherwise—being a sort of patron-saint of all manner of + untidyness ... if Mr. Kenyon's reproaches (of which there's a + stereotyped edition) are justified by the fact—and he has a great + organ of order, and knows 'disorderly persons' at a glance, I suppose. + But you won't be particular with <i>me</i> in the matter of transcription? + <i>that</i> is what I want to make sure of. And even if you are not + particular, I am afraid you are not well enough to be troubled by + writing, and writing and the thinking that comes with it—it would be + wiser to wait till you are quite well—now wouldn't it?—and my fear + is that the 'almost well' means 'very little better.' And why, when + there is no motive for hurrying, run any risk? Don't think that I will + help you to make yourself ill. That I refuse to do even so much work + as the 'little dessert-knife' in the way of murder, ... <i>do</i> think! So + upon the whole, I expect nothing on Saturday from this distance—and + if it comes unexpectedly (I mean the Duchess and not Saturday) <i>let</i> + it be at no cost, or at the least cost possible, will you? I am + delighted in the meanwhile to hear of the quantity of 'mala herba'; + and hemlock does not come up from every seed you sow, though you call + it by ever such bad names. +</p> +<p> + Talking of poetry, I had a newspaper 'in help of social and political + progress' sent to me yesterday from America—addressed to—just my + name ... <i>poetess, London</i>! Think of the simplicity of those wild + Americans in 'calculating' that 'people in general' here in England + know what a poetess is!—Well—the post office authorities, after + deep meditation, I do not doubt, on all probable varieties of the + chimpanzee, and a glance to the Surrey Gardens on one side, and the + Zoological department of Regent's Park on the other, thought of + 'Poet's Corner,' perhaps, and wrote at the top of the parcel, 'Enquire + at Paternoster Row'! whereupon the Paternoster Row people wrote again, + 'Go to Mr. Moxon'—and I received my newspaper. +</p> +<p> + And talking of poetesses, I had a note yesterday (again) which quite + touched me ... from Mr. Hemans—Charles, the son of Felicia—written + with so much feeling, that it was with difficulty I could say my + perpetual 'no' to his wish about coming to see me. His mother's memory + is surrounded to him, he says, 'with almost a divine lustre'—and 'as + it cannot be to those who knew the writer alone and not the woman.' Do + you not like to hear such things said? and is it not better than your + tradition about Shelley's son? and is it not pleasant to know that + that poor noble pure-hearted woman, the Vittoria Colonna of our + country, should be so loved and comprehended by some ... by one at + least ... of her own house? Not that, in naming Shelley, I meant for a + moment to make a comparison—there is not equal ground for it. + Vittoria Colonna does not walk near Dante—no. And if you promised + never to tell Mrs. Jameson ... nor Miss Martineau ... I would confide + to you perhaps my secret profession of faith—which is ... which is + ... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there <i>is</i> a + natural inferiority of mind in women—of the intellect ... not by any + means, of the moral nature—and that the history of Art and of genius + testifies to this fact openly. Oh—I would not say so to Mrs. Jameson + for the world. I believe I was a coward to her altogether—for when + she denounced carpet work as 'injurious to the mind,' because it led + the workers into 'fatal habits of reverie,' I defended the carpet work + as if I were striving <i>pro aris et focis</i>, (<i>I</i>, who am so innocent of + all that knowledge!) and said not a word for the poor reveries which + have frayed away so much of silken time for me ... and let her go + away repeating again and again ... 'Oh, but <i>you</i> may do carpet work + with impunity—yes! <i>because</i> you can be writing poems all the + while.'! +</p> +<p> + Think of people making poems and rugs at once. There's complex + machinery for you! +</p> +<p> + I told you that I had a sensation of cold blue steel from her + eyes!—And yet I really liked and like and shall like her. She is very + kind I believe—and it was my mistake—and I correct my impressions of + her more and more to perfection, as <i>you</i> tell me who know more of her + than I. +</p> +<p> + Only I should not dare, ... <i>ever</i>, I think ... to tell her that I + believe women ... all of us in a mass ... to have minds of quicker + movement, but less power and depth ... and that we are under your + feet, because we can't stand upon our own. Not that we should either + be quite under your feet! so you are not to be too proud, if you + please—and there is certainly some amount of wrong—: but it never + will be righted in the manner and to the extent contemplated by + certain of our own prophetesses ... nor ought to be, I hold in + intimate persuasion. One woman indeed now alive ... and only <i>that</i> + one down all the ages of the world—seems to me to justify for a + moment an opposite opinion—that wonderful woman George Sand; who has + something monstrous in combination with her genius, there is no + denying at moments (for she has written one book, Leila, which I could + not read, though I am not easily turned back,) but whom, in her good + and evil together, I regard with infinitely more admiration than all + other women of genius who are or have been. Such a colossal nature in + every way,—with all that breadth and scope of faculty which women + want—magnanimous, and loving the truth and loving the people—and + with that 'hate of hate' too, which you extol—so eloquent, and yet + earnest as if she were dumb—so full of a living sense of beauty, and + of noble blind instincts towards an ideal purity—and so proving a + right even in her wrong. By the way, what you say of the Vidocq museum + reminds me of one of the chamber of masonic trial scenes in + 'Consuelo.' Could you like to see those knives? +</p> +<p> + I began with the best intentions of writing six lines—and see what is + written! And all because I kept my letter back ... from a <i>doubt about + Saturday</i>—but it has worn away, and the appointment stands good ... + for me: I have nothing to say against it. +</p> +<p> + But belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as general unbelief—to + do it justice—now is it? It may be super-belief as well. Not that + there is not something ghastly and repelling to me in the thought of + Dr. Elliotson's great bony fingers seeming to 'touch the stops' of a + whole soul's harmonies—as in phreno-magnetism. And I should have + liked far better than hearing and seeing <i>that</i>, to have heard <i>you</i> + pour the 'cupful of Diderot's rinsings,' out,—and indeed I can fancy + a little that you and how you could do it—and break the cup too + afterwards! +</p> +<p> + Another sheet—and for what? +</p> +<p> + What is written already, if you read, you do so meritoriously—and + it's an example of bad writing, if you want one in the poems. I am + ashamed, you may see, of having written too much, (besides)—which is + <i>much</i> worse—but one writes and writes: <i>I</i> do at least—for <i>you</i> + are irreproachable. Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not written + ... or <i>had</i>! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark July 7, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + While I write this,—3 o'clock you may be going out, I will hope, for + the day is very fine, perhaps all the better for the wind: yet I got + up this morning sure of bad weather. I shall not try to tell you how + anxious I am for the result and to know it. You will of course feel + fatigued at first—but persevering, as you mean to do, do you + not?—persevering, the event must be happy. +</p> +<p> + I thought, and still think, to write to you about George Sand, and + the vexed question, a very Bermoothes of the 'Mental Claims of the + Sexes Relatively Considered' (so was called the, ... I do believe, ... + worst poem I ever read in my life), and Mrs. Hemans, and all and some + of the points referred to in your letter—but 'by my fay, I cannot + reason,' to-day: and, by a consequence, I feel the more—so I say how + I want news of you ... which, when they arrive, I shall read + 'meritoriously'—do you think? My friend, what ought I to tell you on + that head (or the reverse rather)—of your discourse? I should like to + match you at a fancy-flight; if I could, give you nearly as pleasant + an assurance that 'there's no merit in the case,' but the hot weather + and lack of wit get the better of my good will—besides, I remember + once to have admired a certain enticing simplicity in the avowal of + the Treasurer of a Charitable Institution at a Dinner got up in its + behalf—the Funds being at lowest, Debt at highest ... in fact, this + Dinner was the last chance of the Charity, and this Treasurer's speech + the main feature in the chance—and our friend, inspired by the + emergency, went so far as to say, with a bland smile—'Do not let it + be supposed that we—<i>despise</i> annual contributors,—we + <i>rather</i>—solicit their assistance.' All which means, do not think + that I take any 'merit' for making myself supremely happy, I rather + &c. &c. +</p> +<p> + Always rather mean to deserve it a little better—but never shall: so + it should be, for you and me—and as it was in the beginning so it is + still. You are the—But you know and why should I tease myself with + words? +</p> +<p> + Let me send this off now—and to-morrow some more, because I trust to + hear you have made the first effort and with success. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, my dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, July 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Well—I have really been out; and am really alive after it—which is + more surprising still—alive enough I mean, to write even <i>so</i>, + to-night. But perhaps I say so with more emphasis, to console myself + for failing in my great ambition of getting into the Park and of + reaching Mr. Kenyon's door just to leave a card there vaingloriously, + ... all which I did fail in, and was forced to turn back from the + gates of Devonshire Place. The next time it will be better + perhaps—and this time there was no fainting nor anything very wrong + ... not even cowardice on the part of the victim (be it recorded!) for + one of my sisters was as usual in authority and ordered the turning + back just according to her own prudence and not my selfwill. Only you + will not, any of you, ask me to admit that it was all + delightful—pleasanter work than what you wanted to spare me in taking + care of your roses on Saturday! don't ask <i>that</i>, and I will try it + again presently. +</p> +<p> + I ought to be ashamed of writing this I and me-ism—but since your + kindness made it worth while asking about I must not be over-wise and + silent on my side. +</p> +<p> + <i>Tuesday.</i>—Was it fair to tell me to write though, and be silent of + the 'Duchess,' and when I was sure to be so delighted—and <i>you knew + it</i>? <i>I</i> think not indeed. And, to make the obedience possible, I go + on fast to say that I heard from Mr. Horne a few days since and that + <i>he</i> said—'your envelope reminds me of'—<i>you</i>, he said ... and so, + asked if you were in England still, and meant to write to you. To + which I have answered that I believe you to be in England—thinking it + strange about the envelope; which, as far as I remember, was one of + those long ones, used, the more conveniently to enclose to him back + again a MS. of his own I had offered with another of his, by his + desire, to <i>Colburn's Magazine</i>, as the productions of a friend of + mine, when he was in Germany and afraid of his proper fatal + onymousness, yet in difficulty how to approach the magazines as a + nameless writer (you will not mention this of course). And when he was + in Germany, I remember, ... writing just as your first letter came ... + that I mentioned it to him, and was a little frankly proud of it! but + since, your name has not occurred once—not once, certainly!—and it + is strange.... Only he <i>can't</i> have heard of your having been here, + and it <i>must</i> have been a chance-remark—altogether! taking an + imaginary emphasis from my evil conscience perhaps. Talking of evils, + how wrong of you to make that book for me! and how ill I thanked you + after all! Also, I couldn't help feeling more grateful still for the + Duchess ... who is under ban: and for how long I wonder? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">My dear friend, I am ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, July 9, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You are all that is good and kind: I am happy and thankful the + beginning (and worst of it) is over and so well. The Park and Mr. + Kenyon's all in good time—and your sister was most prudent—and you + mean to try again: God bless you, all to be said or done—but, as I + say it, no vain word. No doubt it was a mere chance-thought, and <i>à + propos de bottes</i> of Horne—neither he or any other <i>can</i> know or even + fancy how it is. Indeed, though on other grounds I should be all so + proud of being known for your friend by everybody, yet there's no + denying the deep delight of playing the Eastern Jew's part here in + this London—they go about, you know by travel-books, with the tokens + of extreme destitution and misery, and steal by blind ways and + by-paths to some blank dreary house, one obscure door in it—which + being well shut behind them, they grope on through a dark corridor or + so, and then, a blaze follows the lifting a curtain or the like, for + they are in a palace-hall with fountains and light, and marble and + gold, of which the envious are never to dream! And I, too, love to + have few friends, and to live alone, and to see you from week to week. + Do you not suppose I am grateful? +</p> +<p> + And you do like the 'Duchess,' as much as you have got of it? that + delights me, too—for every reason. But I fear I shall not be able to + bring you the rest to-morrow—Thursday, my day—because I have been + broken in upon more than one morning; nor, though much better in my + head, can I do anything at night just now. All will come right + eventually, I hope, and I shall transcribe the other things you are to + judge. +</p> +<p> + To-morrow then—only (and that is why I would write) do, do <i>know</i> me + for what I am and treat me as I deserve in that <i>one</i> respect, and <i>go + out</i>, without a moment's thought or care, if to-morrow should suit + you—leave word to that effect and I shall be as glad as if I saw you + or more—<i>reasoned</i> gladness, you know. Or you can write—though that + is not necessary at all,—do think of all this! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours ever, dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, July 12, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You understand that it was not a resolution passed in favour of + formality, when I said what I did yesterday about not going out at the + time you were coming—surely you do; whatever you might signify to a + different effect. If it were necessary for me to go out every day, or + most days even, it would be otherwise; but as it is, I may certainly + keep the day you come, free from the fear of carriages, let the sun + shine its best or worst, without doing despite to you or injury to + me—and that's all I meant to insist upon indeed and indeed. You see, + Jupiter Tonans was good enough to come to-day on purpose to deliver + me—one evil for another! for I confess with shame and contrition, + that I never wait to enquire whether it thunders to the left or the + right, to be frightened most ingloriously. Isn't it a disgrace to + anyone with a pretension to poetry? Dr. Chambers, a part of whose + office it is, Papa says, 'to reconcile foolish women to their + follies,' used to take the side of my vanity, and discourse at length + on the passive obedience of some nervous systems to electrical + influences; but perhaps my faint-heartedness is besides traceable to a + half-reasonable terror of a great storm in Herefordshire, where great + storms most do congregate, (such storms!) round the Malvern Hills, + those mountains of England. We lived four miles from their roots, + through all my childhood and early youth, in a Turkish house my father + built himself, crowded with minarets and domes, and crowned with metal + spires and crescents, to the provocation (as people used to observe) + of every lightning of heaven. Once a storm of storms happened, and we + all thought the house was struck—and a tree was so really, within two + hundred yards of the windows while I looked out—the bark, rent from + the top to the bottom ... torn into long ribbons by the dreadful fiery + hands, and dashed out into the air, over the heads of other trees, or + left twisted in their branches—torn into shreds in a moment, as a + flower might be, by a child! Did you ever see a tree after it has been + struck by lightning? The whole trunk of that tree was bare and + peeled—and up that new whiteness of it, ran the finger-mark of the + lightning in a bright beautiful rose-colour (none of your roses + brighter or more beautiful!) the fever-sign of the certain + death—though the branches themselves were for the most part + untouched, and spread from the peeled trunk in their full summer + foliage; and birds singing in them three hours afterwards! And, in + that same storm, two young women belonging to a festive party were + killed on the Malvern Hills—each sealed to death in a moment with a + sign on the chest which a common seal would cover—only the sign on + them was not rose-coloured as on our tree, but black as charred wood. + So I get 'possessed' sometimes with the effects of these impressions, + and so does one, at least, of my sisters, in a lower degree—and + oh!—how amusing and instructive all this is to you! When my father + came into the room to-day and found me hiding my eyes from the + lightning, he was quite angry and called 'it disgraceful to anybody + who had ever learnt the alphabet'—to which I answered humbly that 'I + knew it was'—but if I had been impertinent, I <i>might</i> have added that + wisdom does not come by the alphabet but in spite of it? Don't you + think so in a measure? <i>non obstantibus</i> Bradbury and Evans? There's a + profane question—and ungrateful too ... after the Duchess—I except + the Duchess and her peers—and be sure she will be the world's Duchess + and received as one of your most striking poems. Full of various power + the poem is.... I cannot say how deeply it has impressed me—but + though I want the conclusion, I don't <i>wish</i> for it; and in this, am + reasonable for once! You will not write and make yourself ill—will + you? or read 'Sybil' at unlawful hours even? Are you better at all? + What a letter! and how very foolishly to-day +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, July 14, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Very well—I shall say no more on the subject—though it was not any + piece of formality on your part that I deprecated; nor even your + over-kindness exactly—I rather wanted you to be really, wisely kind, + and do me a greater favour then the next great one in degree; but you + must understand this much in me, how you can lay me under deepest + obligation. I daresay you think you have some, perhaps many, to whom + your well-being is of deeper interest than to me. Well, if that be + so, do for their sakes make every effort with the remotest chance of + proving serviceable to you; nor <i>set yourself against</i> any little + irksomeness these carriage-drives may bring with them just at the + beginning; and you may say, if you like, 'how I shall delight those + friends, if I can make this newest one grateful'—and, as from the + known quantity one reasons out the unknown, this newest friend will be + one glow of gratitude, he knows that, if you can warm your finger-tips + and so do yourself that much real good, by setting light to a dozen + 'Duchesses': why ought I not to say this when it is so true? Besides, + people profess as much to their merest friends—for I have been + looking through a poem-book just now, and was told, under the head of + Album-verses alone, that for A. the writer would die, and for B. die + too but a crueller death, and for C. too, and D. and so on. I wonder + whether they have since wanted to borrow money of him on the strength + of his professions. But you must remember we are in July; the 13th it + is, and summer will go and cold weather stay ('<i>come</i>' forsooth!)—and + now is the time of times. Still I feared the rain would hinder you on + Friday—but the thunder did not frighten me—for you: your father must + pardon me for holding most firmly with Dr. Chambers—his theory is + quite borne out by my own experience, for I have seen a man it were + foolish to call a coward, a great fellow too, all but die away in a + thunderstorm, though he had quite science enough to explain why there + was no immediate danger at all—whereupon his younger brother + suggested that he should just go out and treat us to a repetition of + Franklin's experiment with the cloud and the kite—a well-timed + proposition which sent the Explainer down with a white face into the + cellar. What a grand sight your tree was—<i>is</i>, for I see it. My + father has a print of a tree so struck—torn to ribbons, as you + describe—but the rose-mark is striking and new to me. We had a good + storm on our last voyage, but I went to bed at the end, as I + thought—and only found there had been lightning next day by the bare + poles under which we were riding: but the finest mountain fit of the + kind I ever saw has an unfortunately ludicrous association. It was at + Possagno, among the Euganean Hills, and I was at a poor house in the + town—an old woman was before a little picture of the Virgin, and at + every fresh clap she lighted, with the oddest sputtering muttering + mouthful of prayer imaginable, an inch of guttery candle, which, the + instant the last echo had rolled away, she as constantly blew out + again for saving's sake—having, of course, to <i>light the smoke</i> of + it, about an instant after that: the expenditure in wax at which the + elements might be propitiated, you see, was a matter for curious + calculation. I suppose I ought to have bought the whole taper for some + four or five centesimi (100 of which make 8d. English) and so kept the + countryside safe for about a century of bad weather. Leigh Hunt tells + you a story he had from Byron, of kindred philosophy in a Jew who was + surprised by a thunderstorm while he was dining on bacon—he tried to + eat between-whiles, but the flashes were as pertinacious as he, so at + last he pushed his plate away, just remarking with a compassionate + shrug, 'all this fuss about a piece of pork!' By the way, what a + characteristic of an Italian <i>late</i> evening is Summer-lightning—it + hangs in broad slow sheets, dropping from cloud to cloud, so long in + dropping and dying off. The 'bora,' which you only get at Trieste, + brings wonderful lightning—you are in glorious June-weather, fancy, + of an evening, under green shock-headed acacias, so thick and green, + with the cicalas stunning you above, and all about you men, women, + rich and poor, sitting standing and coming and going—and through all + the laughter and screaming and singing, the loud clink of the spoons + against the glasses, the way of calling for fresh 'sorbetti'—for all + the world is at open-coffee-house at such an hour—when suddenly there + is a stop in the sunshine, a blackness drops down, then a great white + column of dust drives straight on like a wedge, and you see the acacia + heads snap off, now one, then another—and all the people scream 'la + bora, la bora!' and you are caught up in their whirl and landed in + some interior, the man with the guitar on one side of you, and the boy + with a cageful of little brown owls for sale, on the other—meanwhile, + the thunder claps, claps, with such a persistence, and the rain, for a + finale, falls in a mass, as if you had knocked out the whole bottom of + a huge tank at once—then there is a second stop—out comes the + sun—somebody clinks at his glass, all the world bursts out laughing, + and prepares to pour out again,—but <i>you</i>, the stranger, <i>do</i> make + the best of your way out, with no preparation at all; whereupon you + infallibly put your foot (and half your leg) into a river, really + that, of rainwater—that's a <i>Bora</i> (and that comment of yours, a + justifiable pun!) Such things you get in Italy, but better, better, + the best of all things you do not (<i>I</i> do not) get those. And I shall + see you on Wednesday, please remember, and bring you the rest of the + poem—that you should like it, gratifies me more than I will try to + say, but then, do not you be tempted by that pleasure of pleasing + which I think is your besetting sin—may it not be?—and so cut me off + from the other pleasure of being profited. As I told you, I like so + much to fancy that you see, and will see, what I do as <i>I</i> see it, + while it is doing, as nobody else in the world should, certainly, even + if they thought it worth while to want—but when I try and build a + great building I shall want you to come with me and judge it and + counsel me before the scaffolding is taken down, and while you have to + make your way over hods and mortar and heaps of lime, and trembling + tubs of size, and those thin broad whitewashing brushes I always had a + desire to take up and bespatter with. And now goodbye—I am to see you + on Wednesday I trust—and to hear you say you are better, still + better, much better? God grant that, and all else good for you, dear + friend, and so for R.B. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">ever yours. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, July 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I suppose nobody is ever expected to acknowledge his or her 'besetting + sin'—it would be unnatural—and therefore you will not be surprised + to hear me deny the one imputed to me for mine. I deny it quite and + directly. And if my denial goes for nothing, which is but reasonable, + I might call in a great cloud of witnesses, ... a thundercloud, ... + (talking of storms!) and even seek no further than this table for a + first witness; this letter, I had yesterday, which calls me ... let me + see how many hard names ... 'unbending,' ... 'disdainful,' ... 'cold + hearted,' ... 'arrogant,' ... yes, 'arrogant, as women always are when + men grow humble' ... there's a charge against all possible and + probable petticoats beyond mine and through it! Not that either they + or mine deserve the charge—we do not; to the lowest hem of us! for I + don't pass to the other extreme, mind, and adopt besetting sins 'over + the way' and in antithesis. It's an undeserved charge, and unprovoked! + and in fact, the very flower of self-love self-tormented into ill + temper; and shall remain unanswered, for <i>me</i>, ... and <i>should</i>, ... + even if I could write mortal epigrams, as your Lamia speaks them. Only + it serves to help my assertion that people in general who know + something of me, my dear friend, are not inclined to agree with you in + particular, about my having an 'over-pleasure in pleasing,' for a + besetting sin. If you had spoken of my sister Henrietta indeed, you + would have been right—<i>so</i> right! but for <i>me</i>, alas, my sins are not + half as amiable, nor given to lean to virtue's side with half such a + grace. And then I have a pretension to speak the truth like a Roman, + even in matters of literature, where Mr. Kenyon says falseness is a + fashion—and really and honestly I should not be afraid ... I should + have no reason to be afraid, ... if all the notes and letters written + by my hand for years and years about presentation copies of poems and + other sorts of books were brought together and 'conferred,' as they + say of manuscripts, before my face—I should not shrink and be + ashamed. Not that I always tell the truth as I see it—<i>but</i> I <i>never + do</i> speak falsely with intention and consciousness—never—and I do + not find that people of letters are sooner offended than others are, + by the truth told in gentleness;—I do not remember to have offended + anyone in this relation, and by these means. Well!—but <i>from me to + you</i>; it is all different, you know—you must know how different it + is. I can tell you truly what I think of this thing and of that thing + in your 'Duchess'—but I must of a necessity hesitate and fall into + misgiving of the adequacy of my truth, so called. To judge at all of a + work of yours, I must <i>look up to it</i>, and <i>far up</i>—because whatever + faculty <i>I</i> have is included in your faculty, and with a great rim all + round it besides! And thus, it is not at all from an over-pleasure in + pleasing <i>you</i>, not at all from an inclination to depreciate myself, + that I speak and feel as I do and must on some occasions; it is simply + the consequence of a true comprehension of you and of me—and apart + from it, I should not be abler, I think, but less able, to assist you + in anything. I do wish you would consider all this reasonably, and + understand it as a third person would in a moment, and consent not to + spoil the real pleasure I have and am about to have in your poetry, by + nailing me up into a false position with your gold-headed nails of + chivalry, which won't hold to the wall through this summer. Now you + will not answer this?—you will only understand it and me—and that I + am not servile but sincere, but earnest, but meaning what I say—and + when I say I am afraid, you will believe that I am afraid; and when I + say I have misgivings, you will believe that I have misgivings—you + will <i>trust</i> me so far, and give me liberty to breathe and feel + naturally ... according to my own nature. Probably, or certainly + rather, I have one advantage over you, ... one, of which women are not + fond of boasting—that of <i>being older by years</i>—for the 'Essay on + Mind,' which was the first poem published by me (and rather more + printed than published after all), the work of my earliest youth, half + childhood, half womanhood, was published in 1826 I see. And if I told + Mr. Kenyon not to let you see that book, it was not for the date, but + because Coleridge's daughter was right in calling it a mere 'girl's + exercise'; because it is just <i>that</i> and no more, ... no expression + whatever of my nature as it ever was, ... pedantic, and in some things + pert, ... and such as altogether, and to do myself justice (which I + would fain do of course), I was not in my whole life. Bad books are + never like their writers, you know—and those under-age books are + generally bad. Also I have found it hard work to <i>get into + expression</i>, though I began rhyming from my very infancy, much as you + did (and this, with no sympathy near to me—I have had to do without + sympathy in the full sense—), and even in my 'Seraphim' days, my + tongue clove to the roof of my mouth,—from leading so conventual + recluse a life, perhaps—and all my better poems were written last + year, the very best thing to come, if there should be any life or + courage to come; I scarcely know. Sometimes—it is the real truth—I + have haste to be done with it all. It is the real truth; however to + say so may be an ungrateful return for your kind and generous words, + ... which I <i>do</i> feel gratefully, let me otherwise feel as I will, ... + or must. But then you know you are liable to such prodigious mistakes + about besetting sins and even besetting virtues—to such a set of + small delusions, that are sure to break one by one, like other + bubbles, as you draw in your breath, ... as I see by the law of my own + star, my own particular star, the star I was born under, the star + <i>Wormwood</i>, ... on the opposite side of the heavens from the + constellations of 'the Lyre and the Crown.' In the meantime, it is + difficult to thank you, or <i>not</i> to thank you, for all your + kindnesses—<span title="algos de sigan">αλγος δε σιγαν</span>. Only Mrs. Jameson told me of Lady + Byron's saying 'that she knows she is burnt every day in effigy by + half the world, but that the effigy is so unlike herself as to be + inoffensive to her,' and just so, or rather just in the converse of + <i>so</i>, is it with me and your kindnesses. They are meant for quite + another than I, and are too far to be so near. The comfort is ... in + seeing you throw all those ducats out of the window, (and how many + ducats go in a figure to a 'dozen Duchesses,' it is profane to + calculate) the comfort is that you will not be the poorer for it in + the end; since the people beneath, are honest enough to push them back + under the door. Rather a bleak comfort and occupation though!—and you + may find better work for your friends, who are (some of them) weary + even unto death of the uses of this life. And now, you who are + generous, <i>be</i> generous, and take no notice of all this. I speak of + myself, not of you so there is nothing for you to contradict or + discuss—and if there were, you would be really kind and give me my + way in it. Also you may take courage; for I promise not to vex you by + thanking you against <i>your</i> will,—more than may be helped. +</p> +<p> + Some of this letter was written before yesterday and in reply of + course to yours—so it is to pass for two letters, being long enough + for just six. Yesterday you must have wondered at me for being in such + a maze altogether about the poems—and so now I rise to explain that + it was assuredly the wine song and no other which I read of yours in + <i>Hood's</i>. And then, what did I say of the Dante and Beatrice? Because + what I referred to was the exquisite page or two or three on that + subject in the 'Pentameron.' I do not remember anything else of + Landor's with the same bearing—do you? As to Montaigne, with the + threads of my thoughts smoothly disentangled, I can see nothing + coloured by him ... nothing. Do bring all the <i>Hood</i> poems of your + own—inclusive of the 'Tokay,' because I read it in such haste as to + whirl up all the dust you saw, from the wheels of my chariot. The + 'Duchess' is past speaking of here—but you will see how I am + delighted. And we must make speed—only taking care of your head—for + I heard to-day that Papa and my aunt are discussing the question of + sending me off either to Alexandria or Malta for the winter. Oh—it + is quite a passing talk and thought, I dare say! and it would not <i>be</i> + in any case, until September or October; though in every case, I + suppose, <i>I</i> should not be much consulted ... and all cases and places + would seem better to me (if I were) than Madeira which the physicians + used to threaten me with long ago. So take care of your headache and + let us have the 'Bells' rung out clear before the summer ends ... and + pray don't say again anything about clear consciences or unclear ones, + in granting me the privilege of reading your manuscripts—which is all + clear privilege to me, with pride and gladness waiting on it. May God + bless you always my dear friend! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + You left behind your sister's little basket—but I hope you did not + forget to thank her for my carnations. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[no date] +</p> +<p> + I shall just say, at the beginning of a note as at the end, I am yours + <i>ever</i>, and not till summer ends and my nails fall out, and my breath + breaks bubbles,—ought you to write thus having restricted me as you + once did, and do still? You tie me like a Shrove-Tuesday fowl to a + stake and then pick the thickest cudgel out of your lot, and at my + head it goes—I wonder whether you remembered having predicted exactly + the same horror once before. 'I was to see you—and you were to + understand'—<i>Do</i> you? do you understand—my own friend—with that + superiority in years, too! For I confess to that—you need not throw + that in my teeth ... as soon as I read your 'Essay on Mind'—(which of + course I managed to do about 12 hours after Mr. K's positive refusal + to keep his promise, and give me the book) from preface to the 'Vision + of Fame' at the end, and reflected on my own doings about that time, + 1826—I did indeed see, and wonder at, your advance over me in + years—what then? I have got nearer you considerably—(if only + nearer)—since then—and prove it by the remarks I make at favourable + times—such as this, for instance, which occurs in a poem you are to + see—written some time ago—which advises nobody who thinks nobly of + the Soul, to give, if he or she can help, such a good argument to the + materialist as the owning that any great choice of that Soul, which it + is born to make and which—(in its determining, as it must, the whole + future course and impulses of that soul)—which must endure for ever, + even though the object that induced the choice should + disappear—owning, I say, that such a choice may be scientifically + determined and produced, at any operator's pleasure, by a definite + number of ingredients, so much youth, so much beauty, so much talent + &c. &c., with the same certainty and precision that another kind of + operator will construct you an artificial volcano with so much steel + filings and flower of sulphur and what not. There is more in the soul + than rises to the surface and meets the eye; whatever does <i>that</i>, is + for this world's immediate uses; and were this world <i>all, all</i> in us + would be producible and available for use, as it <i>is</i> with the body + now—but with the soul, what is to be developed <i>afterward</i> is the + main thing, and instinctively asserts its rights—so that when you + hate (or love) you shall not be so able to explain 'why' ('You' is the + ordinary creature enough of my poem—<i>he</i> might not be so able.) +</p> +<p> + There, I will write no more. You will never drop <i>me</i> off the golden + hooks, I dare believe—and the rest is with God—whose finger I see + every minute of my life. Alexandria! Well, and may I not as easily ask + leave to come 'to-morrow at the Muezzin' as next Wednesday at three? +</p> +<p> + God bless you—do not be otherwise than kind to this letter which it + costs me pains, great pains to avoid writing better, as + truthfuller—this you get is not the first begun. Come, you shall not + have the heart to blame me; for, see, I will send all my sins of + commission with <i>Hood</i>,—blame <i>them</i>, tell me about them, and + meantime let me be, dear friend, yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, July 21, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But I never <i>did</i> strike you or touch you—and you are not in earnest + in the complaint you make—and this is really all I am going to say + to-day. What I said before was wrung from me by words on your part, + while you know far too well how to speak so as to make them go + deepest, and which sometimes it becomes impossible, or over-hard to + bear without deprecation:—as when, for instance, you talk of being + 'grateful' to <i>me</i>!!—Well! I will try that there shall be no more of + it—no more provocation of generosities—and so, (this once) as you + express it, I 'will not have the heart to blame' you—except for + reading my books against my will, which was very wrong indeed. Mr. + Kenyon asked me, I remember, (he had a mania of sending my copybook + literature round the world to this person and that person, and I was + roused at last into binding him by a vow to do so no more) I remember + he asked me ... 'Is Mr. Browning to be excepted?'; to which I answered + that nobody was to be excepted—and thus he was quite right in + resisting to the death ... or to dinner-time ... just as you were + quite wrong after dinner. Now, could a woman have been more curious? + Could the very author of the book have done worse? But I leave my sins + and yours gladly, to get into the <i>Hood</i> poems which have delighted me + so—and first to the St. Praxed's which is of course the finest and + most powerful ... and indeed full of the power of life ... and of + death. It has impressed me very much. Then the 'Angel and Child,' with + all its beauty and significance!—and the 'Garden Fancies' ... some of + the stanzas about the name of the flower, with such exquisite music in + them, and grace of every kind—and with that beautiful and musical use + of the word 'meandering,' which I never remember having seen used in + relation to <i>sound</i> before. It does to mate with your '<i>simmering</i> + quiet' in Sordello, which brings the summer air into the room as sure + as you read it. Then I like your burial of the pedant so much!—you + have quite the damp smell of funguses and the sense of creeping things + through and through it. And the 'Laboratory' is hideous as you meant + to make it:—only I object a little to your tendency ... which is + almost a habit, and is very observable in this poem I think, ... of + making lines difficult for the reader to read ... see the opening + lines of this poem. Not that music is required everywhere, nor in + <i>them</i> certainly, but that the uncertainty of rhythm throws the + reader's mind off the <i>rail</i> ... and interrupts his progress with you + and your influence with him. Where we have not direct pleasure from + rhythm, and where no peculiar impression is to be produced by the + changes in it, we should be encouraged by the poet to <i>forget it + altogether</i>; should we not? I am quite wrong perhaps—but you see how + I do not conceal my wrongnesses where they mix themselves up with my + sincere impressions. And how could it be that no one within my hearing + ever spoke of these poems? Because it is true that I never saw one of + them—never!—except the 'Tokay,' which is inferior to all; and that I + was quite unaware of your having printed so much with Hood—or at all, + except this 'Tokay,' and this 'Duchess'! The world is very deaf and + dumb, I think—but in the end, we need not be afraid of its not + learning its lesson. +</p> +<p> + Could you come—for I am going out in the carriage, and will not stay + to write of your poems even, any more to-day—could you come on + Thursday or Friday (the day left to your choice) instead of on + Wednesday? If I could help it I would not say so—it is not a caprice. + And I leave it to you, whether Thursday or Friday. And Alexandria + seems discredited just now for Malta—and 'anything but Madeira,' I go + on saying to myself. These <i>Hood</i> poems are all to be in the next + 'Bells' of course—of necessity? +</p> +<p> + May God bless you my dear friend, my ever dear friend!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, July 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I will say, with your leave, Thursday (nor attempt to say anything + else without your leave). +</p> +<p> + The temptation of reading the 'Essay' was more than I could bear: and + a wonderful work it is every way; the other poems and their + music—wonderful! +</p> +<p> + And you go out still—so continue better! +</p> +<p> + I cannot write this morning—I should say too much and have to be + sorry and afraid—let me be safely yours ever, my own dear friend— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + I am but too proud of your praise—when will the blame come—at Malta? +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, July 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Are you any better to-day? and will you say just the truth of it? and + not attempt to do any of the writing which does harm—nor of the + reading even, which may do harm—and something does harm to you, you + see—and you told me not long ago that you knew how to avoid the harm + ... now, did you not? and what could it have been last week which you + did not avoid, and which made you so unwell? Beseech you not to think + that I am going to aid and abet in this wronging of yourself, for I + will not indeed—and I am only sorry to have given you my querulous + queries yesterday ... and to have omitted to say in relation to them, + too, how they were to be accepted in any case as just passing thoughts + of mine for <i>your</i> passing thoughts, ... some right, it may be ... + some wrong, it must be ... and none, insisted on even by the thinker! + just impressions, and by no means pretending to be judgments—now + <i>will</i> you understand? Also, I intended (as a proof of my fallacy) to + strike out one or two of my doubts before I gave the paper to you—so + <i>whichever strikes you as the most foolish of them, of course must be + what I meant to strike out</i>—(there's ingenuity for you!). The poem + did, for the rest, as will be suggested to you, give me the very + greatest pleasure, and astonish me in two ways ... by the + versification, mechanically considered; and by the successful + evolution of pure beauty from all that roughness and rudeness of the + sin of the boar-pinner—successfully evolved, without softening one + hoarse accent of his voice. But there is to be a pause now—you will + not write any more—no, nor come here on Wednesday, if coming into the + roar of this London should make the pain worse, as I cannot help + thinking it must—and you were not well yesterday morning, you + admitted. You <i>will</i> take care? And if there should be a wisdom in + going away...! +</p> +<p> + Was it very wrong of me, doing what I told you of yesterday? Very + imprudent, I am afraid—but I never knew how to be prudent—and then, + there is not a sharing of responsibility in any sort of imaginable + measure; but a mere going away of so many thoughts, apart from the + thinker, or of words, apart from the speaker, ... just as I might give + away a pocket-handkerchief to be newly marked and mine no longer. I + did not do—and would not have done, ... one of those papers singly. + It would have been unbecoming of me in every way. It was simply a + writing of notes ... of slips of paper ... now on one subject, and now + on another ... which were thrown into the great cauldron and boiled up + with other matter, and re-translated from my idiom where there seemed + a need for it. And I am not much afraid of being ever guessed + at—except by those Oedipuses who astounded me once for a moment and + were after all, I hope, baffled by the Sphinx—or ever betrayed; + because besides the black Stygian oaths and indubitable honour of the + editor, he has some interest, even as I have the greatest, in being + silent and secret. And nothing <i>is mine</i> ... if something is <i>of me</i> + ... or <i>from</i> me, rather. Yet it was wrong and foolish, I see + plainly—wrong in all but the motives. How dreadful to write against + time, and with a side-ways running conscience! And then the literature + of the day was wider than his knowledge, all round! And the + booksellers were barking distraction on every side!—I had some of the + mottos to find too! But the paper relating to you I never was + consulted about—or in <i>one particular way</i> it would have been + better,—as easily it might have been. May God bless you, my dear + friend, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, July 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You would let me <i>now</i>, I dare say, call myself grateful to you—yet + such is my jealousy in these matters—so do I hate the material when + it puts down, (or tries) the immaterial in the offices of friendship; + that I could almost tell you I was <i>not</i> grateful, and try if that way + I could make you see the substantiality of those other favours you + refuse to recognise, and reality of the other gratitude you will not + admit. But truth is truth, and you are all generosity, and will draw + none but the fair inference, so I thank you as well as I can for this + <i>also</i>—this last kindness. And you know its value, too—how if there + were another <i>you</i> in the world, who had done all you have done and + whom I merely admired for that; if such an one had sent me such a + criticism, so exactly what I want and can use and turn to good; you + know how I would have told you, my <i>you</i> I saw yesterday, all about + it, and been sure of your sympathy and gladness:—but the two in one! +</p> +<p> + For the criticism itself, it is all true, except the over-eating—all + the suggestions are to be adopted, the improvements accepted. I so + thoroughly understand your spirit in this, that, just in this + beginning, I should really like to have found some point in which I + could coöperate with your intention, and help my work by disputing the + effect of any alteration proposed, if it ought to be disputed—<i>that</i> + would answer your purpose exactly as well as agreeing with you,—so + that the benefit to me were apparent; but this time I cannot dispute + one point. All is for best. +</p> +<p> + So much for this 'Duchess'—which I shall ever rejoice in—wherever + was a bud, even, in that strip of May-bloom, a live musical bee hangs + now. I shall let it lie (my poem), till just before I print it; and + then go over it, alter at the places, and do something for the places + where I (really) wrote anyhow, almost, to get done. It is an odd fact, + yet characteristic of my accomplishings one and all in this kind, that + of <i>the poem</i>, the real conception of an evening (two years ago, + fully)—of <i>that</i>, not a line is written,—though perhaps after all, + what I am going to call the accessories in the story are real though + indirect reflexes of the original idea, and so supersede properly + enough the necessity of its personal appearance, so to speak. But, as + I conceived the poem, it consisted entirely of the Gipsy's description + of the life the Lady was to lead with her future Gipsy lover—a <i>real</i> + life, not an unreal one like that with the Duke. And as I meant to + write it, all their wild adventures would have come out and the + insignificance of the former vegetation have been deducible only—as + the main subject has become now; of course it comes to the same thing, + for one would never show half by half like a cut orange.— +</p> +<p> + Will you write to me? caring, though, so much for my best interests as + not to write if you can work for yourself, or save yourself fatigue. I + <i>think</i> before writing—or just after writing—such a sentence—but + reflection only justifies my first feeling; I <i>would</i> rather go + without your letters, without seeing you at all, if that advantaged + you—my dear, first and last friend; my friend! And now—surely I + might dare say you may if you please get well through God's + goodness—with persevering patience, surely—and this next winter + abroad—which you must get ready for now, every sunny day, will you + not? If I venture to weary you again with all this, is there not the + cause of causes, and did not the prophet write that 'there was a tide + in the affairs of men, which taken at the E.B.B.' led on to the + fortune of +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R.B. +</p> +<p> + Oh, let me tell you in the bitterness of my heart, that it was only 4 + o'clock—that clock I enquired about—and that, ... no, I shall never + say with any grace what I want to say ... and now dare not ... that + you all but owe me an extra quarter of an hour next time: as in the + East you give a beggar something for a few days running—then you miss + him; and next day he looks indignant when the regular dole falls and + murmurs—'And, for yesterday?'—Do I stay too long, I <i>want</i> to + know,—too long for the voice and head and all but the spirit that may + not so soon tire,—knowing the good it does. If you would but tell me. +</p> +<p> + God bless you— +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, July 28, 1845] +</p> +<p> + You say too much indeed in this letter which has crossed mine—and + particularly as there is not a word in it of what I most wanted to + know and want to know ... <i>how you are</i>—for you must observe, if you + please, that the very paper you pour such kindness on, was written + after your own example and pattern, when, in the matter of my + 'Prometheus' (such different wearying matter!), you took trouble for + me and did me good. Judge from this, if even in inferior things, there + can be gratitude from you to me!—or rather, do not judge—but listen + when I say that I am delighted to have met your wishes in writing as I + wrote; only that you are surely wrong in refusing to see a single + wrongness in all that heap of weedy thoughts, and that when you look + again, you must come to the admission of it. One of the thistles is + the suggestion about the line +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Was it singing, was it saying, +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + which you wrote so, and which I proposed to amend by an intermediate + 'or.' Thinking of it at a distance, it grows clear to me that you were + right, and that there should be and must be no 'or' to disturb the + listening pause. Now <i>should</i> there? And there was something else, + which I forget at this moment—and something more than the something + else. Your account of the production of the poem interests me very + much—and proves just what I wanted to make out from your statements + the other day, and they refused, I thought, to let me, ... that you + are more faithful to your first <i>Idea</i> than to your first <i>plan</i>. Is + it so? or not? 'Orange' is orange—but <i>which half</i> of the orange is + not predestinated from all eternity—: is it <i>so</i>? +</p> +<p> + <i>Sunday.</i>—I wrote so much yesterday and then went out, not knowing + very well how to speak or how to be silent (is it better to-day?) of + some expressions of yours ... and of your interest in me—which are + deeply affecting to my feelings—whatever else remains to be said of + them. And you know that you make great mistakes, ... of fennel for + hemlock, of four o'clocks for five o'clocks, and of other things of + more consequence, one for another; and may not be quite right besides + as to my getting well '<i>if I please</i>!' ... which reminds me a little + of what Papa says sometimes when he comes into this room unexpectedly + and convicts me of having dry toast for dinner, and declares angrily + that obstinacy and dry toast have brought me to my present condition, + and that if I <i>pleased</i> to have porter and beefsteaks instead, I + should be as well as ever I was, in a month!... But where is the need + of talking of it? What I wished to say was this—that if I get better + or worse ... as long as I live and to the last moment of life, I shall + remember with an emotion which cannot change its character, all the + generous interest and feeling you have spent on me—<i>wasted</i> on me I + was going to write—but I would not provoke any answering—and in one + obvious sense, it need not be so. I never shall forget these things, + my dearest friend; nor remember them more coldly. God's goodness!—I + believe in it, as in His sunshine here—which makes my head ache a + little, while it comes in at the window, and makes most other people + gayer—it does <i>me</i> good too in a different way. And so, may God bless + you! and me in this ... just this, ... that I may never have the + sense, ... intolerable in the remotest apprehension of it ... of + being, in any way, directly or indirectly, the means of ruffling your + smooth path by so much as one of my flint-stones!—In the meantime you + do not tire me indeed even when you go later for sooner ... and I do + not tire myself even when I write longer and duller letters to you (if + the last is possible) than the one I am ending now ... as the most + grateful (leave me that word) of your friends. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + How could you think that I should speak to Mr. Kenyon of the book? All + I ever said to him has been that you had looked through my + 'Prometheus' for me—and that I was <i>not disappointed in you</i>, these + two things on two occasions. I do trust that your head is better. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, July 28, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How must I feel, and what can, or could I say even if you let me say + all? I am most grateful, most happy—most happy, come what will! +</p> +<p> + Will you let me try and answer your note to-morrow—before Wednesday + when I am to see you? I will not hide from you that my head aches now; + and I have let the hours go by one after one—I am better all the + same, and will write as I say—'Am I better' you ask! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours I am, ever yours my dear friend R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, July 31, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + In all I say to you, write to you, I know very well that I trust to + your understanding me almost beyond the warrant of any human + capacity—but as I began, so I shall end. I shall believe you remember + what I am forced to remember—you who do me the superabundant justice + on every possible occasion,—you will never do me injustice when I sit + by you and talk about Italy and the rest. +</p> +<p> + —To-day I cannot write—though I am very well otherwise—but I shall + soon get into my old self-command and write with as much 'ineffectual + fire' as before: but meantime, <i>you</i> will write to me, I hope—telling + me how you are? I have but one greater delight in the world than in + hearing from you. +</p> +<p> + God bless you, my best, dearest friend—think what I would speak— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 2, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Let me write one word ... not to have it off my mind ... because it is + by no means heavily <i>on</i> it; but lest I should forget to write it at + all by not writing it at once. What could you mean, ... I have been + thinking since you went away ... by applying such a grave expression + as having a thing 'off your mind' to that foolish subject of the + stupid book (mine), and by making it worth your while to account + logically for your wish about my not mentioning it to Mr. Kenyon? You + could not fancy for one moment that I was vexed in the matter of the + book? or in the other matter of your wish? Now just hear me. I + explained to you that I had been silent to Mr. Kenyon, first because + the fact was so; and next and a little, because I wanted to show how I + anticipated your wish by a wish of my own ... though from a different + motive. <i>Your</i> motive I really did take to be (never suspecting my + dear kind cousin of treason) to be a natural reluctancy of being + convicted (forgive me!) of such an arch-womanly curiosity. For my own + motive ... motives ... they are more than one ... you must trust me; + and refrain as far as you can from accusing me of an over-love of + Eleusinian mysteries when I ask you to say just as little about your + visits here and of me as you find possible ... <i>even to Mr. Kenyon</i> + ... as <i>to every other person whatever</i>. As you know ... and yet more + than you know ... I am in a peculiar position—and it does not follow + that you should be ashamed of my friendship or that I should not be + proud of yours, if we avoid making it a subject of conversation in + high places, or low places. There! <i>that</i> is my request to you—or + commentary on what you put 'off your mind' yesterday—probably quite + unnecessary as either request or commentary; yet said on the chance of + its not being so, because you seemed to mistake my remark about Mr. + Kenyon. +</p> +<p> + And your head, how is it? And do consider if it would not be wise and + right on that account of your health, to go with Mr. Chorley? You can + neither work nor enjoy while you are subject to attacks of the + kind—and besides, and without reference to your present suffering and + inconvenience, you <i>ought not</i> to let them master you and gather + strength from time and habit; I am sure you ought not. Worse last week + than ever, you see!—and no prospect, perhaps, of bringing out your + "Bells" this autumn, without paying a cost too heavy!—Therefore ... + the <i>therefore</i> is quite plain and obvious!— +</p> +<p> + <i>Friday.</i>—Just as it is how anxious Flush and I are, to be delivered + from you; by these sixteen heads of the discourse of one of us, + written before your letter came. Ah, but I am serious—and you will + consider—will you not? what is best to be done? and do it. You could + write to me, you know, from the end of the world; if you could take + the thought of me so far. +</p> +<p> + And <i>for</i> me, no, and yet yes,—I <i>will</i> say this much; that I am not + inclined to do you injustice, but justice, when you come here—the + justice of wondering to myself how you can possibly, possibly, care to + come. Which is true enough to be <i>unanswerable</i>, if you please—or I + should not say it. '<i>As I began, so I shall end</i>—' Did you, as I hope + you did, thank your sister for Flush and for me? When you were gone, + he graciously signified his intention of eating the cakes—brought the + bag to me and emptied it without a drawback, from my hand, cake after + cake. And I forgot the basket once again. +</p> +<p> + And talking of Italy and the cardinals, and thinking of some cardinal + points you are ignorant of, did you ever hear that I was one of +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p>'those schismatiques<br> +of Amsterdam' +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + whom your Dr. Donne would have put into the dykes? unless he meant the + Baptists, instead of the Independents, the holders of the Independent + church principle. No—not '<i>schismatical</i>,' I hope, hating as I do + from the roots of my heart all that rending of the garment of Christ, + which Christians are so apt to make the daily week-day of this + Christianity so called—and caring very little for most dogmas and + doxies in themselves—too little, as people say to me sometimes, (when + they send me 'New Testaments' to learn from, with very kind + intentions)—and believing that there is only one church in heaven and + earth, with one divine High Priest to it; let exclusive religionists + build what walls they please and bring out what chrisms. But I used to + go with my father always, when I was able, to the nearest dissenting + chapel of the Congregationalists—from liking the simplicity of that + praying and speaking without books—and a little too from disliking + the theory of state churches. There is a narrowness among the + dissenters which is wonderful; an arid, grey Puritanism in the clefts + of their souls: but it seems to me clear that they know what the + 'liberty of Christ' <i>means</i>, far better than those do who call + themselves 'churchmen'; and stand altogether, as a body, on higher + ground. And so, you see, when I talked of the sixteen points of my + discourse, it was the foreshadowing of a coming event, and you have + had it at last in the whole length and breadth of it. But it is not my + fault if the wind began to blow so that I could not go out—as I + intended—as I shall do to-morrow; and that you have received my + dulness in a full libation of it, in consequence. My sisters said of + the roses you blasphemed, yesterday, that they 'never saw such flowers + anywhere—anywhere here in London—' and therefore if I had thought so + myself before, it was not so wrong of me. I put your roses, you see, + against my letter, to make it seem less dull—and yet I do not forget + what you say about caring to hear from me—I mean, I do not <i>affect</i> + to forget it. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, far longer than I can say so. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, August 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I said what you comment on, about Mr. Kenyon, because I feel I <i>must</i> + always tell you the simple truth—and not being quite at liberty to + communicate the whole story (though it would at once clear me from the + charge of over-curiosity ... if I much cared for <i>that</i>!)—I made my + first request in order to prevent your getting at any part of it from + <i>him</i> which should make my withholding seem disingenuous for the + moment—that is, till my explanation came, if it had an opportunity of + coming. And then, when I fancied you were misunderstanding the reason + of that request—and supposing I was ambitious of making a higher + figure in <i>his</i> eyes than your own,—I then felt it 'on my mind' and + so spoke ... a natural mode of relief surely! For, dear friend, I have + <i>once</i> been <i>untrue</i> to you—when, and how, and why, you know—but I + thought it pedantry and worse to hold by my words and increase their + fault. You have forgiven me that one mistake, and I only refer to it + now because if you should ever make <i>that</i> a precedent, and put any + least, most trivial word of mine under the same category, you would + wrong me as you never wronged human being:—and that is done with. For + the other matter,—the talk of my visits, it is impossible that any + hint of them can ooze out of the only three persons in the world to + whom I ever speak of them—my father, mother and sister—to whom my + appreciation of your works is no novelty since some years, and whom I + made comprehend exactly your position and the necessity for the + absolute silence I enjoined respecting the permission to see you. You + may depend on them,—and Miss Mitford is in your keeping, mind,—and + dear Mr. Kenyon, if there should be never so gentle a touch of + 'garrulous God-innocence' about those kind lips of his. Come, let me + snatch at <i>that</i> clue out of the maze, and say how perfect, absolutely + perfect, are those three or four pages in the 'Vision' which present + the Poets—a line, a few words, and the man there,—one twang of the + bow and the arrowhead in the white—Shelley's 'white ideal all + statue-blind' is—perfect,—how can I coin words? And dear deaf old + Hesiod—and—all, all are perfect, perfect! But 'the Moon's regality + will hear no praise'—well then, will she hear blame? Can it be you, + my own you past putting away, <i>you</i> are a schismatic and frequenter of + Independent Dissenting Chapels? And you confess this to <i>me</i>—whose + father and mother went this morning to the very Independent Chapel + where they took me, all those years back, to be baptised—and where + they heard, this morning, a sermon preached by the very minister who + officiated on that other occasion! Now will you be particularly + encouraged by this successful instance to bring forward any other + point of disunion between us that may occur to you? Please do not—for + so sure as you begin proving that there is a gulf fixed between us, so + sure shall I end proving that ... Anne Radcliffe avert it!... that you + are just my sister: not that I am much frightened, but there are such + surprises in novels!—Blame the next,—yes, now this <i>is</i> to be real + blame!—And I meant to call your attention to it before. Why, why, do + you blot out, in that unutterably provoking manner, whole lines, not + to say words, in your letters—(and in the criticism on the + 'Duchess')—if it is a fact that you have a second thought, does it + cease to be as genuine a fact, that first thought you please to + efface? Why give a thing and take a thing? Is there no significance in + putting on record that your first impression was to a certain effect + and your next to a certain other, perhaps completely opposite one? If + any proceeding of yours could go near to deserve that harsh word + 'impertinent' which you have twice, in speech and writing, been + pleased to apply to your observations on me; certainly <i>this</i> does go + as near as can be—as there is but one step to take from Southampton + pier to New York quay, for travellers Westward. Now will you lay this + to heart and perpend—lest in my righteous indignation I [some words + effaced here]! For my own health—it improves, thank you! And I shall + go abroad all in good time, never fear. For my 'Bells,' Mr. Chorley + tells me there is no use in the world of printing them before November + at earliest—and by that time I shall get done with these Romances and + certainly one Tragedy (<i>that</i> could go to press next week)—in proof + of which I will bring you, if you let me, a few more hundreds of lines + next Wednesday. But, 'my poet,' if I would, as is true, sacrifice all + my works to do your fingers, even, good—what would I not offer up to + prevent you staying ... perhaps to correct my very verses ... perhaps + read and answer my very letters ... staying the production of more + 'Berthas' and 'Caterinas' and 'Geraldines,' more great and beautiful + poems of which I shall be—how proud! Do not be punctual in paying + tithes of thyme, mint, anise and cummin, and leaving unpaid the real + weighty dues of the Law; nor affect a scrupulous acknowledgment of + 'what you owe me' in petty manners, while you leave me to settle such + a charge, as accessory to the hiding the Talent, as best I can! I have + thought of this again and again, and would have spoken of it to you, + had I ever felt myself fit to speak of any subject nearer home and me + and you than Rome and Cardinal Acton. For, observe, you have not done + ... yes, the 'Prometheus,' no doubt ... but with that exception <i>have</i> + you written much lately, as much as last year when 'you wrote all your + best things' you said, I think? Yet you are better now than then. + Dearest friend, <i>I</i> intend to write more, and very likely be praised + more, now I care less than ever for it, but still more do I look to + have you ever before me, in your place, and with more poetry and more + praise still, and my own heartfelt praise ever on the top, like a + flower on the water. I have said nothing of yesterday's storm ... + <i>thunder</i> ... may you not have been out in it! The evening draws in, + and I will walk out. May God bless you, and let you hold me by the + hand till the end—Yes, dearest friend! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, August 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Just to show what may be lost by my crossings out, I will tell you the + story of the one in the 'Duchess'—and in fact it is almost worth + telling to a metaphysician like you, on other grounds, that you may + draw perhaps some psychological good from the absurdity of it. Hear, + then. When I had done writing the sheet of annotations and reflections + on your poem I took up my pencil to correct the passages reflected on + with the reflections, by the crosses you may observe, just glancing + over the writing as I did so. Well! and, where that erasure is, I + found a line purporting to be extracted from your 'Duchess,' with + sundry acute criticisms and objections quite undeniably strong, + following after it; only, to my amazement, as I looked and looked, the + line so acutely objected to and purporting, as I say, to, be taken + from the 'Duchess,' was by no means to be found in the 'Duchess,' ... + nor anything like it, ... and I am certain indeed that, in the + 'Duchess' or out of it, you never wrote such a bad line in your life. + And so it became a proved thing to me that I had been enacting, in a + mystery, both poet and critic together—and one so neutralizing the + other, that I took all that pains you remark upon to cross myself out + in my double capacity, ... and am now telling the story of it + notwithstanding. And there's an obvious moral to the myth, isn't + there? for critics who bark the loudest, commonly bark at their own + shadow in the glass, as my Flush used to do long and loud, before he + gained experience and learnt the <span title="gnôthi seauton">γνωθι σεαυτον</span> in the + apparition of the brown dog with the glittering dilating eyes, ... and + as <i>I</i> did, under the erasure. And another moral springs up of itself + in this productive ground; for, you see, ... '<i>quand je m'efface il + n'ya pas grand mal</i>.' +</p> +<p> + And I am to be made to work very hard, am I? But you should remember + that if I did as much writing as last summer, I should not be able to + do much else, ... I mean, to go out and walk about ... for really I + think I <i>could</i> manage to read your poems and write as I am writing + now, with ever so much head-work of my own going on at the same time. + But the bodily exercise is different, and I do confess that the + novelty of living more in the outer life for the last few months than + I have done for years before, make me idle and inclined to be + idle—and everybody is idle sometimes—even <i>you</i> perhaps—are you + not? For me, you know, I do carpet-work—ask Mrs. Jameson—and I never + pretend to be in a perpetual motion of mental industry. Still it may + not be quite as bad as you think: I have done some work since + 'Prometheus'—only it is nothing worth speaking of and not a part of + the romance-poem which is to be some day if I live for it—lyrics for + the most part, which lie written illegibly in pure Egyptian—oh, there + is time enough, and too much perhaps! and so let me be idle a little + now, and enjoy your poems while I can. It is pure enjoyment and must + be—but you do not know how much, or you would not talk as you do + sometimes ... so wide of any possible application. +</p> +<p> + And do <i>not</i> talk again of what you would 'sacrifice' for <i>me</i>. If you + affect me by it, which is true, you cast me from you farther than ever + in the next thought. <i>That</i> is true. +</p> +<p> + The poems ... yours ... which you left with me,—are full of various + power and beauty and character, and you must let me have my own + gladness from them in my own way. +</p> +<p> + Now I must end this letter. Did you go to Chelsea and hear the divine + philosophy? +</p> +<p> + <i>Tell me the truth always</i> ... will you? I mean such truths as may be + painful to me <i>though</i> truths.... +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you, ever dear friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, August 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Then there is one more thing 'off my mind': I thought it might be with + you as with <i>me</i>—not remembering how different are the causes that + operate against us; different in kind as in degree:—<i>so</i> much reading + hurts me, for instance,—whether the reading be light or heavy, + fiction or fact, and <i>so</i> much writing, whether my own, such as you + have seen, or the merest compliment-returning to the weary tribe that + exact it of one. But your health—that before all!... as assuring all + eventually ... and on the other accounts you must know! Never, pray, + <i>pray</i>, never lose one sunny day or propitious hour to 'go out or walk + about.' But do not surprise <i>me</i>, one of these mornings, by 'walking' + up to me when I am introduced' ... or I shall infallibly, in spite of + all the after repentance and begging pardon—I shall [words effaced]. + So here you learn the first 'painful truth' I have it in my power to + tell you! +</p> +<p> + I sent you the last of our poor roses this morning—considering that I + fairly owed that kindness to them. +</p> +<p> + Yes, I went to Chelsea and found dear Carlyle alone—his wife is in + the country where he will join her as soon as his book's last sheet + returns corrected and fit for press—which will be at the month's end + about. He was all kindness and talked like his own self while he made + me tea—and, afterward, brought chairs into the little yard, rather + than garden, and smoked his pipe with apparent relish; at night he + would walk as far as Vauxhall Bridge on my way home. +</p> +<p> + If I used the word 'sacrifice,' you do well to object—I can imagine + nothing ever to be done by me worthy such a name. +</p> +<p> + God bless you, dearest friend—shall I hear from you before Tuesday? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + It is very kind to send these flowers—too kind—why are they sent? + and without one single word ... which is not too kind certainly. I + looked down into the heart of the roses and turned the carnations over + and over to the peril of their leaves, and in vain! Not a word do I + deserve to-day, I suppose! And yet if I don't, I don't deserve the + flowers either. There should have been an equal justice done to my + demerits, O Zeus with the scales! +</p> +<p> + After all I do thank you for these flowers—and they are + beautiful—and they came just in a right current of time, just when I + wanted them, or something like them—so I confess <i>that</i> humbly, and + do thank you, at last, rather as I ought to do. Only you ought not to + give away all the flowers of your garden to <i>me</i>; and your sister + thinks so, be sure—if as silently as you sent them. Now I shall not + write any more, not having been written to. What with the Wednesday's + flowers and these, you may think how I in this room, look down on the + gardens of Damascus, let <i>your Jew</i><a href="#note-20"><b>20</b></a> say what he pleases of + <i>them</i>—and the Wednesday's flowers are as fresh and beautiful, I must + explain, as the new ones. They were quite supererogatory ... the new + ones ... in the sense of being flowers. Now, the sense of what I am + writing seems questionable, does it not?—at least, more so, than the + nonsense of it. +</p> +<p> + Not a word, even under the little blue flowers!!!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, August 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How good you are to the smallest thing I try and do—(to show I + <i>would</i> please you for an instant if I could, rather than from any + hope such poor efforts as I am restricted to, can please you or + ought.) And that you should care for the note that was not there!—But + I was surprised by the summons to seal and deliver, since time and the + carrier were peremptory—and so, I dared divine, almost, I should hear + from you by our mid-day post—which happened—and the answer to + <i>that</i>, you received on Friday night, did you not? I had to go to + Holborn, of all places,—not to pluck strawberries in the Bishop's + Garden like Richard Crouchback, but to get a book—and there I carried + my note, thinking to expedite its delivery: this notelet of yours, + quite as little in its kind as my blue flowers,—this came last + evening—and here are my thanks, dear E.B.B.—dear friend. +</p> +<p> + In the former note there is a phrase I must not forget to call on you + to account for—that where it confesses to having done 'some + work—only nothing worth speaking of.' Just see,—will you be first + and only compact-breaker? Nor misunderstand me here, please, ... as I + said, I am quite rejoiced that you go out now, 'walk about' now, and + put off the writing that will follow thrice as abundantly, all because + of the stopping to gather strength ... so I want no new word, not to + say poem, not to say the romance-poem—let the 'finches in the + shrubberies grow restless in the dark'—<i>I</i> am inside with the lights + and music: but what is done, is done, <i>pas vrai</i>? And 'worth' is, dear + my friend, pardon me, not in your arbitration quite. +</p> +<p> + Let me tell you an odd thing that happened at Chorley's the other + night. I must have mentioned to you that I forget my own verses so + surely after they are once on paper, that I ought, without + affectation, to mend them infinitely better, able as I am to bring + fresh eyes to bear on them—(when I say 'once on paper' that is just + what I mean and no more, for after the sad revising begins they do + leave their mark, distinctly or less so according to circumstances). + Well, Miss Cushman, the new American actress (clever and + truthful-looking) was talking of a new novel by the Dane Andersen, he + of the 'Improvisatore,' which will reach us, it should seem, in + translation, <i>viâ</i> America—she had looked over two or three proofs of + the work in the press, and Chorley was anxious to know something about + its character. The title, she said, was capital—'Only a + Fiddler!'—and she enlarged on that word, 'Only,' and its + significance, so put: and I quite agreed with her for several minutes, + till first one reminiscence flitted to me, then another and at last I + was obliged to stop my praises and say 'but, now I think of it, <i>I</i> + seem to have written something with a similar title—nay, a play, I + believe—yes, and in five acts—'Only an Actress'—and from that + time, some two years or more ago to this, I have been every way + relieved of it'!—And when I got home, next morning, I made a dark + pocket in my russet horror of a portfolio give up its dead, and there + fronted me 'Only a Player-girl' (the real title) and the sayings and + doings of her, and the others—such others! So I made haste and just + tore out one sample-page, being Scene the First, and sent it to our + friend as earnest and proof I had not been purely dreaming, as might + seem to be the case. And what makes me recall it now is, that it was + Russian, and about a fair on the Neva, and booths and droshkies and + fish-pies and so forth, with the Palaces in the back ground. And in + Chorley's <i>Athenæum</i> of yesterday you may read a paper of <i>very</i> + simple moony stuff about the death of Alexander, and that Sir James + Wylie I have seen at St. Petersburg (where he chose to mistake me for + an Italian—'M. l'Italien' he said another time, looking up from his + cards).... So I think to tell you. +</p> +<p> + Now I may leave off—I shall see you start, on Tuesday—hear perhaps + something definite about your travelling. +</p> +<p> + Do you know, 'Consuelo' wearies me—oh, wearies—and the fourth volume + I have all but stopped at—there lie the three following, but who + cares about Consuelo after that horrible evening with the Venetian + scamp, (where he bullies her, and it does answer, after all she says) + as we say? And Albert wearies too—it seems all false, all + writing—not the first part, though. And what easy work these + novelists have of it! a Dramatic poet has to <i>make</i> you love or admire + his men and women,—they must <i>do</i> and <i>say</i> all that you are to see + and hear—really do it in your face, say it in your ears, and it is + wholly for <i>you</i>, in <i>your</i> power, to <i>name</i>, characterize and so + praise or blame, <i>what</i> is so said and done ... if you don't perceive + of yourself, there is no standing by, for the Author, and telling you. + But with these novelists, a scrape of the pen—out blurting of a + phrase, and the miracle is achieved—'Consuelo possessed to perfection + this and the other gift'—what would you more? Or, to leave dear + George Sand, pray think of Bulwer's beginning a 'character' by + informing you that lone, or somebody in 'Pompeii,' 'was endowed with + <i>perfect</i> genius'—'genius'! What though the obliging informer might + write his fingers off before he gave the pitifullest proof that the + poorest spark of that same, that genius, had ever visited <i>him</i>? + <i>Ione</i> has it '<i>perfectly</i>'—perfectly—and that is enough! Zeus with + the scales? with the false weights! +</p> +<p> + And now—till Tuesday good-bye, and be willing to get well as (letting + me send <i>porter</i> instead of flowers—and beefsteaks too!) soon as may + be! and may God bless you, ever dear friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, August 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But if it 'hurts' you to read and write ever so little, why should I + be asked to write ... for instance ... 'before Tuesday?' And I did + mean to say before to-day, that I wish you never would write to me + when you are not <i>quite well</i>, as once or twice you have done if not + much oftener; because there is not a necessity, ... and I do not + choose that there should ever be, or <i>seem</i> a necessity, ... do you + understand? And as a matter of personal preference, it is natural for + me to like the silence that does not hurt you, better than the speech + that does. And so, remember. +</p> +<p> + And talking of what may 'hurt' you and me, you would smile, as I have + often done in the midst of my vexation, if you knew the persecution I + have been subjected to by the people who call themselves (<i>lucus a non + lucendo</i>) 'the faculty,' and set themselves against the exercise of + other people's faculties, as a sure way to death and destruction. The + modesty and simplicity with which one's physicians tell one not to + think or feel, just as they would tell one not to walk out in the dew, + would be quite amusing, if it were not too tryingly stupid sometimes. + I had a doctor once who thought he had done everything because he had + carried the inkstand out of the room—'Now,' he said, 'you will have + such a pulse to-morrow.' He gravely thought poetry a sort of + disease—a sort of fungus of the brain—and held as a serious opinion, + that nobody could be properly well who exercised it as an art—which + was true (he maintained) even of men—he had studied the physiology of + poets, 'quotha'—but that for women, it was a mortal malady and + incompatible with any common show of health under any circumstances. + And then came the damnatory clause in his experience ... that he had + never known 'a system' approaching mine in 'excitability' ... except + Miss Garrow's ... a young lady who wrote verses for Lady Blessington's + annuals ... and who was the only other female rhymer he had had the + misfortune of attending. And she was to die in two years, though she + was dancing quadrilles then (and has lived to do the same by the + polka), and <i>I</i>, of course, much sooner, if I did not ponder these + things, and amend my ways, and take to reading 'a course of history'!! + Indeed I do not exaggerate. And just so, for a long while I was + persecuted and pestered ... vexed thoroughly sometimes ... my own + family, instructed to sing the burden out all day long—until the time + when the subject was suddenly changed by my heart being broken by that + great stone that fell out of Heaven. Afterwards I was let do anything + I could best ... which was very little, until last year—and the + working, last year, did much for me in giving me stronger roots down + into life, ... much. But think of that absurd reasoning that went + before!—the <i>niaiserie</i> of it! For, granting all the premises all + round, it is not the <i>utterance</i> of a thought that <i>can</i> hurt anybody; + while only the utterance is dependent on the will; and so, what can + the taking away of an inkstand do? Those physicians are such + metaphysicians! It's curious to listen to them. And it's wise to leave + off listening: though I have met with excessive kindness among them, + ... and do not refer to Dr. Chambers in any of this, of course. +</p> +<p> + I am very glad you went to Chelsea—and it seemed finer afterwards, on + purpose to make room for the divine philosophy. Which reminds me (the + going to Chelsea) that my brother Henry confessed to me yesterday, + with shame and confusion of face, to having mistaken and taken your + umbrella for another belonging to a cousin of ours then in the house. + He saw you ... without conjecturing, just at the moment, who you were. + Do <i>you</i> conjecture sometimes that I live all alone here like Mariana + in the moated Grange? It is not quite so—: but where there are many, + as with us, every one is apt to follow his own devices—and my father + is out all day and my brothers and sisters are in and out, and with + too large a public of noisy friends for me to bear, ... and I see them + only at certain hours, ... except, of course, my sisters. And then as + you have 'a reputation' and are opined to talk generally in blank + verse, it is not likely that there should be much irreverent rushing + into this room when you are known to be in it. +</p> +<p> + The flowers are ... so beautiful! Indeed it was wrong, though, to send + me the last. It was not just to the lawful possessors and enjoyers of + them. That it was kind to <i>me</i> I do not forget. +</p> +<p> + You are too teachable a pupil in the art of obliterating—and <i>omne + ignotum pro terrifico</i> ... and therefore I won't frighten you by + walking to meet you for fear of being frightened myself. +</p> +<p> + So good-bye until Tuesday. I ought not to make you read all this, I + know, whether you like to read it or not: and I ought not to have + written it, having no better reason than because I like to write on + and on. <i>You</i> have better reasons for thinking me very weak—and I, + too good ones for not being able to reproach you for that natural and + necessary opinion. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you my dearest friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + What can I say, or hope to say to you when I see what you do for me? +</p> +<p> + <i>This</i>—for myself, (nothing for <i>you</i>!)—<i>this</i>, that I think the + great, great good I get by your kindness strikes me less than that + kindness. +</p> +<p> + All is right, too— +</p> +<p> + Come, I <SPAN class="sc-ex">will</span> have my fault-finding at last! So you can decypher my + <i>utterest</i> hieroglyphic? Now droop the eyes while I triumph: the + plains cower, cower beneath the mountains their masters—and the + Priests stomp over the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two + lines of a legend that delighted my infancy, and now instruct my + maturer years in pretty nearly all they boast of the semi-mythologic + era referred to—'In London town, when reigned King Lud, His lords + went stomping thro' the mud'—would all historic records were half as + picturesque!) +</p> +<p> + But you know, yes, <i>you</i> know you are too indulgent by far—and treat + these roughnesses as if they were advanced to many a stage! Meantime + the pure gain is mine, and better, the kind generous spirit is mine, + (mine to profit by)—and best—best—best, the dearest friend is mine, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">So be happy</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, I admit that it was stupid to read that word so wrong. I thought + there was a mistake somewhere, but that it was <i>yours</i>, who had + written one word, meaning to write another. 'Cower' puts it all right + of course. But is there an English word of a significance different + from 'stamp,' in 'stomp?' Does not the old word King Lud's men + stomped withal, claim identity with our 'stamping.' The <i>a</i> and <i>o</i> + used to 'change about,' you know, in the old English writers—see + Chaucer for it. Still the 'stomp' with the peculiar significance, is + better of course than the 'stamp' even with a rhyme ready for it, and + I dare say you are justified in daring to put this old wine into the + new bottle; and we will drink to the health of the poem in it. It <i>is</i> + 'Italy in England'—isn't it? But I understand and understood + perfectly, through it all, that it is <i>unfinished</i>, and in a rough + state round the edges. I could not help seeing <i>that</i>, even if I were + still blinder than when I read 'Lower' for 'Cower.' +</p> +<p> + But do not, I ask of you, speak of my 'kindness' ... my + kindness!—mine! It is 'wasteful and ridiculous excess' and + mis-application to use such words of me. And therefore, talking of + 'compacts' and the 'fas' and 'nefas' of them, I entreat you to know + for the future that whatever I write of your poetry, if it isn't to be + called 'impertinence,' isn't to be called 'kindness,' any more, ... <i>a + fortiori</i>, as people say when they are sure of an argument. Now, will + you try to understand? +</p> +<p> + And talking still of compacts, how and where did I break any compact? + I do not see. +</p> +<p> + It was very curious, the phenomenon about your 'Only a Player-Girl.' + What an un-godlike indifference to your creatures though—your worlds, + breathed away from you like soap bubbles, and dropping and breaking + into russet portfolios unobserved! Only a god for the Epicurean, at + best, can you be? That Miss Cushman went to Three Mile Cross the other + day, and visited Miss Mitford, and pleased her a good deal, I fancied + from what she said, ... and with reason, from what <i>you</i> say. And + 'Only a Fiddler,' as I forgot to tell you yesterday, is announced, you + may see in any newspaper, as about to issue from the English press by + Mary Howitt's editorship. So we need not go to America for it. But if + you complain of George Sand for want of art, how could you bear + Andersen, who can see a thing under his eyes and place it under yours, + and take a thought separately into his soul and express it insularly, + but has no sort of instinct towards wholeness and unity; and writes a + book by putting so many pages together, ... just so!—For the rest, + there can be no disagreeing with you about the comparative difficulty + of novel-writing and drama-writing. I disagree a little, lower down in + your letter, because I could not deny (in my own convictions) a + certain proportion of genius to the author of 'Ernest Maltravers,' and + 'Alice' (did you ever read those books?), even if he had more + impotently tried (supposing it to be possible) for the dramatic + laurel. In fact his poetry, dramatic or otherwise, is 'nought'; but + for the prose romances, and for 'Ernest Maltravers' above all, I must + lift up my voice and cry. And I read the <i>Athenæum</i> about your Sir + James Wylie who took you for an Italian.... +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">'Poi vi dirò Signor, che ne fu causa<br> +Ch' avio fatto al scriver debita pausa.'— +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"> +Ever your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, August 15, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Do you know, dear friend, it is no good policy to stop up all the + vents of my feeling, nor leave one for safety's sake, as you will do, + let me caution you never so repeatedly. I know, quite well enough, + that your 'kindness' is not <i>so</i> apparent, even, in this instance of + correcting my verses, as in many other points—but on such points, you + lift a finger to me and I am dumb.... Am I not to be allowed a word + here neither? +</p> +<p> + I remember, in the first season of German Opera here, when 'Fidelio's' + effects were going, going up to the gallery in order to get the best + of the last chorus—get its oneness which you do—and, while perched + there an inch under the ceiling, I was amused with the enormous + enthusiasm of an elderly German (we thought,—I and a cousin of + mine)—whose whole body broke out in billow, heaved and swayed in the + perfection of his delight, hands, head, feet, all tossing and striving + to utter what possessed him. Well—next week, we went again to the + Opera, and again mounted at the proper time, but the crowd was + <i>greater</i>, and our mild great faced white haired red cheeked German + was not to be seen, not at first—for as the glory was at its full, my + cousin twisted me round and made me see an arm, only an arm, all the + body of its owner being amalgamated with a dense crowd on each side, + before, and—not behind, because they, the crowd, occupied the last + benches, over which we looked—and this arm waved and exulted as if + 'for the dignity of the whole body,'—relieved it of its dangerous + accumulation of repressed excitability. When the crowd broke up all + the rest of the man disengaged itself by slow endeavours, and there + stood our friend confessed—as we were sure! +</p> +<p> + —Now, you would have bade him keep his arm quiet? 'Lady Geraldine, + you <i>would</i>!' +</p> +<p> + I have read those novels—but I must keep that word of words, + 'genius'—for something different—'talent' will do here surely. +</p> +<p> + There lies 'Consuelo'—done with! +</p> +<p> + I shall tell you frankly that it strikes me as precisely what in + conventional language with the customary silliness is styled a + <i>woman's</i> book, in its merits and defects,—and supremely timid in all + the points where one wants, and has a right to expect, some <i>fruit</i> of + all the pretence and George Sand<i>ism</i>. These are occasions when one + does say, in the phrase of her school, 'que la Femme parle!' or what + is better, let her act! and how does Consuelo comfort herself on such + an emergency? Why, she bravely lets the uninspired people throw down + one by one their dearest prejudices at her feet, and then, like a + very actress, picks them up, like so many flowers, returning them to + the breast of the owners with a smile and a courtesy and trips off the + stage with a glance at the Pit. Count Christian, Baron Frederic, + Baroness—what is her name—all open their arms, and Consuelo will not + consent to entail disgrace &c. &c. No, you say—she leaves them in + order to solve the problem of her true feeling, whether she can really + love Albert; but remember that this is done, (that is, so much of it + as ever <i>is</i> done, and as determines her to accept his hand at the + very last)—this is solved sometime about the next morning—or + earlier—I forget—and in the meantime, Albert gets that 'benefit of + the doubt' of which chapter the last informs you. As for the + hesitation and self examination on the matter of that Anzoleto—the + writer is turning over the leaves of a wrong dictionary, seeking help + from Psychology, and pretending to forget there is such a thing as + Physiology. Then, that horrible Porpora:—if George Sand gives <i>him</i> + to a Consuelo for an absolute master, in consideration of his services + specified, and is of opinion that <i>they</i> warrant his conduct, or at + least, oblige submission to it,—then, I find her objections to the + fatherly rule of Frederic perfectly impertinent—he having a few + claims upon the gratitude of Prussia also, in his way, I believe! If + the strong ones <i>will make</i> the weak ones lead them—then, for + Heaven's sake, let this dear old all-abused world keep on its course + without these outcries and tearings of hair, and don't be for ever + goading the Karls and other trodden-down creatures till they get their + carbines in order (very rationally) to abate the nuisance—when you + make the man a long speech against some enormity he is about to + commit, and adjure and beseech and so forth, till he throws down the + aforesaid carbine, falls on his knees, and lets the Frederic go + quietly on his way to keep on killing his thousands after the fashion + that moved your previous indignation. Now is that right, + consequential—that is, <i>inferential</i>; logically deduced, going + straight to the end—<i>manly</i>? +</p> +<p> + The accessories are not the Principal, the adjuncts—the essence, nor + the ornamental incidents the book's self, so what matters it if the + portraits are admirable, the descriptions eloquent, (eloquent, there + it is—that is her characteristic—what she <i>has</i> to speak, she + <i>speaks out</i>, speaks volubly <i>forth</i>, too well, inasmuch as you say, + advancing a step or two, 'And now speak as completely <i>here</i>'—and she + says nothing)—but all <i>that</i>, another could do, as others have + done—but 'la femme qui parle'—Ah, that, is <i>this</i> all? So I am not + George Sand's—she teaches me nothing—I look to her for nothing. +</p> +<p> + I am ever yours, dearest friend. How I write to you—page on page! But + Tuesday—who could wait till then! Shall I not hear from you? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you ever</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But what likeness is there between opposites; and what has 'M. + l'Italien' to do with the said 'elderly German'? See how little! For + to bring your case into point, somebody should have been playing on a + Jew's harp for the whole of the orchestra; and the elderly German + should have quoted something about 'Harp of Judah' to the Venetian + behind him! And there, you would have proved your analogy!—Because + you see, my dear friend, it was not the expression, but the thing + expressed, I cried out against—the exaggeration in your mind. I am + sorry when I write what you do not like—but I have instincts and + impulses too strong for me when you say things which put me into such + a miserably false position in respect to you—as for instance, when in + this very last letter (oh, I <i>must</i> tell you!) you talk of my + 'correcting your verses'! My correcting your verses!!!—Now is <i>that</i> + a thing for you to say?—And do you really imagine that if I kept that + happily imagined phrase in my thoughts, I should be able to tell you + one word of my impressions from your poetry, ever, ever again? Do you + not see at once what a disqualifying and paralysing phrase it must be, + of simple necessity? So it is <i>I</i> who have reason to complain, ... it + appears to <i>me</i>, ... and by no means <i>you</i>—and in your 'second + consideration' you become aware of it, I do not at all doubt. +</p> +<p> + As to 'Consuelo' I agree with nearly all that you say of it—though + George Sand, we are to remember, is greater than 'Consuelo,' and not + to be depreciated according to the defects of that book, nor + classified as 'femme qui parle' ... she who is man and woman together, + ... judging her by the standard of even that book in the nobler + portions of it. For the inconsequency of much in the book, I admit it + of course—and <i>you</i> will admit that it is the rarest of phenomena + when men ... men of logic ... follow their own opinions into their + obvious results—nobody, you know, ever thinks of doing such a thing: + to pursue one's own inferences is to rush in where angels ... perhaps + ... do <i>not</i> fear to tread, ... but where there will not be much other + company. So the want of practical logic shall be a human fault rather + than a womanly one, if you please: and you must please also to + remember that 'Consuelo' is only 'half the orange'; and that when you + complain of its not being a whole one, you overlook that hand which is + holding to you the 'Comtesse de Rudolstadt' in three volumes! Not that + I, who have read the whole, profess a full satisfaction about Albert + and the rest—and Consuelo is made to be happy by a mere clap-trap at + last: and Mme. Dudevant has her specialities,—in which, other women, + I fancy, have neither part nor lot, ... even <i>here</i>!—Altogether, the + book is a sort of rambling 'Odyssey,' a female 'Odyssey,' if you like, + but full of beauty and nobleness, let the faults be where they may. + And then, I like those long, long books, one can live away into ... + leaving the world and above all oneself, quite at the end of the + avenue of palms—quite out of sight and out of hearing!—Oh, I have + felt something like <i>that</i> so often—so often! and <i>you</i> never felt + it, and never will, I hope. +</p> +<p> + But if Bulwer had written nothing but the 'Ernest Maltravers' books, + you would think perhaps more highly of him. Do you <i>not</i> think it + possible now? It is his most impotent struggling into poetry, which + sets about proving a negative of genius on him—<i>that</i>, which the + <i>Athenæum praises</i> as 'respectable attainment in various walks of + literature'—! <i>like</i> the <i>Athenæum</i>, isn't it? and worthy praise, to + be administered by professed judges of art? What is to be expected of + the public, when the teachers of the public teach <i>so</i>?— +</p> +<p> + When you come on Tuesday, do not forget the MS. if any is done—only + don't let it be done so as to tire and hurt you—mind! And good-bye + until Tuesday, from +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I am going to propose to you to give up Tuesday, and to take your + choice of two or three other days, say Friday, or Saturday, or + to-morrow ... Monday. Mr. Kenyon was here to-day and talked of leaving + London on Friday, and of visiting me again on 'Tuesday' ... he said, + ... but that is an uncertainty, and it may be Tuesday or Wednesday or + Thursday. So I thought (wrong or right) that out of the three + remaining days you would not mind choosing one. And if you do choose + the Monday, there will be no need to write—nor time indeed—; but if + the Friday or Saturday, I shall hear from you, perhaps. Above all + things remember, my dear friend, that I shall not expect you + to-morrow, except as by a <i>bare possibility</i>. In great haste, signed + and sealed this Sunday evening by +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday, 7 P.M.<br> +[Post-mark, August 19, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I this moment get your note—having been out since the early + morning—and I must write just to catch the post. You are pure + kindness and considerateness, <i>no</i> thanks to you!—(since you will + have it so—). I choose Friday, then,—but I shall hear from you + before Thursday, I dare hope? I have all but passed your house + to-day—with an Italian friend, from Rome, whom I must go about with a + little on weariful sight seeing, so I shall earn Friday. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I fancied it was just <i>so</i>—as I did not hear and did not see you on + Monday. Not that you were expected particularly—but that you would + have written your own negative, it appeared to me, by some post in the + day, if you had received my note in time. It happened well too, + altogether, as you have a friend with you, though Mr. Kenyon does not + come, and will not come, I dare say; for he spoke like a doubter at + the moment; and as this Tuesday wears on, I am not likely to have any + visitors on it after all, and may as well, if the rain quite ceases, + go and spend my solitude on the park a little. Flush wags his tail at + that proposition when I speak it loud out. And I am to write to you + before Friday, and so, am writing, you see ... which I should not, + should not have done if I had not been told; because it is not my turn + to write, ... did you think it was? +</p> +<p> + Not a word of Malta! except from Mr. Kenyon who talked homilies of it + last Sunday and wanted to speak them to Papa—but it would not do in + any way—now especially—and in a little time there will be a + decision for or against; and I am afraid of <i>both</i> ... which is a + happy state of preparation. Did I not tell you that early in the + summer I did some translations for Miss Thomson's 'Classical Album,' + from Bion and Theocritus, and Nonnus the author of that large (not + great) poem in some forty books of the 'Dionysiaca' ... and the + paraphrases from Apuleius? Well—I had a letter from her the other + day, full of compunction and ejaculation, and declaring the fact that + Mr. Burges had been correcting all the proofs of the poems; leaving + out and emending generally, according to his own particular idea of + the pattern in the mount—is it not amusing? I have been wicked enough + to write in reply that it is happy for her and all readers ... <i>sua si + bona norint</i> ... if during some half hour which otherwise might have + been dedicated by Mr. Burges to patting out the lights of Sophocles + and his peers, he was satisfied with the humbler devastation of E.B.B. + upon Nonnus. You know it is impossible to help being amused. This + correcting is a mania with that man! And then I, who wrote what I did + from the 'Dionysiaca,' with no respect for 'my author,' and an + arbitrary will to 'put the case' of Bacchus and Ariadne as well as I + could, for the sake of the art-illustrations, ... those subjects Miss + Thomson sent me, ... and did it all with full liberty and persuasion + of soul that nobody would think it worth while to compare English with + Greek and refer me back to Nonnus and detect my wanderings from the + text!! But the critic was not to be cheated so! And I do not doubt + that he has set me all 'to rights' from beginning to end; and combed + Ariadne's hair close to her cheeks for me. Have <i>you</i> known Nonnus, + ... <i>you</i> who forget nothing? and have known everything, I think? For + it is quite startling, I must tell you, quite startling and + humiliating, to observe how you combine such large tracts of + experience of outer and inner life, of books and men, of the world and + the arts of it; curious knowledge as well as general knowledge ... and + deep thinking as well as wide acquisition, ... and you, looking none + the older for it all!—yes, and being besides a man of genius and + working your faculty and not wasting yourself over a surface or away + from an end. Dugald Stewart said that genius made naturally a + lop-sided mind—did he not? He ought to have known <i>you</i>. And <i>I</i> who + do ... a little ... (for I grow more loth than I was to assume the + knowledge of you, my dear friend)—<i>I</i> do not mean to use that word + 'humiliation' in the sense of having felt the thing myself in any + <i>painful</i> way, ... because I never for a moment did, or <i>could</i>, you + know,—never could ... never did ... except indeed when you have over + praised me, which forced another personal feeling in. Otherwise it has + always been quite pleasant to me to be 'startled and humiliated'—and + more so perhaps than to be startled and exalted, if I might choose.... +</p> +<p> + Only I did not mean to write all this, though you told me to write to + you. But the rain which keeps one in, gives one an example of pouring + on ... and you must endure as you can or will. Also ... as you have a + friend with you 'from Italy' ... 'from Rome,' and commended me for my + 'kindness and considerateness' in changing Tuesday to Friday ... + (wasn't it?...) shall I still be more considerate and put off the + visit-day to next week? mind, you let it be as you like it best to + be—I mean, as is most convenient 'for the nonce' to you and your + friend—because all days are equal, as to that matter of convenience, + to your other friend of this ilk, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, August 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Mauvaise, mauvaise, mauvaise, you know as I know, just as much, that + your 'kindness and considerateness' consisted, not in putting off + Tuesday for another day, but in caring for my coming at all; for my + coming and being told at the door that you were engaged, and <i>I</i> might + call another time! And you are <SPAN class="sc-ex">not, not</span> my 'other friend,' any more + than this head of mine is my <i>other</i> head, seeing that I have got a + violin which has a head too! All which, beware lest you get fully told + in the letter I will write this evening, when I have done with my + Romans—who are, it so happens, here at this minute; that is, have + left the house for a few minutes with my sister—but are not 'with + me,' as you seem to understand it,—in the house to stay. They were + kind to me in Rome, (husband and wife), and I am bound to be of what + use I may during their short stay. Let me lose no time in begging and + praying you to cry 'hands off' to that dreadful Burgess; have not I + got a ... but I will tell you to-night—or on Friday which is my day, + please—Friday. Till when, pray believe me, with respect and esteem, +</p> +<p> + Your most obliged and disobliged at these blank endings—what have I + done? God bless you ever dearest friend. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday, 7 o'clock.<br> +[Post-mark, August 21, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I feel at home, this blue early morning, now that I sit down to write + (or, <i>speak</i>, as I try and fancy) to you, after a whole day with those + 'other friends'—dear good souls, whom I should be so glad to serve, + and to whom service must go by way of last will and testament, if a + few more hours of 'social joy,' 'kindly intercourse,' &c., fall to my + portion. My friend the Countess began proceedings (when I first saw + her, not yesterday) by asking 'if I had got as much money as I + expected by any works published of late?'—to which I answered, of + course, 'exactly as much'—<i>è grazioso</i>! (All the same, if you were to + ask her, or the like of her, 'how much the stone-work of the Coliseum + would fetch, properly burned down to lime?'—she would shudder from + head to foot and call you 'barbaro' with good Trojan heart.) Now you + suppose—(watch my rhetorical figure here)—you suppose I am going to + congratulate myself on being so much for the better, <i>en pays de + connaissance</i>, with my 'other friend,' E.B.B., number 2—or 200, why + not?—whereas I mean to 'fulmine over Greece,' since thunder frightens + you, for all the laurels,—and to have reason for your taking my own + part and lot to yourself—I do, will, must, and <i>will</i>, again, wonder + at <i>you</i> and admire <i>you</i>, and so on to the climax. It is a fixed, + immovable thing: so fixed that I can well forego talking about it. But + if to talk you once begin, 'the King shall enjoy (or receive quietly) + his own again'—I wear no bright weapon out of that Panoply ... or + Panoplite, as I think you call Nonnus, nor ever, like Leigh Hunt's + 'Johnny, ever blythe and bonny, went singing Nonny, nonny' and see + to-morrow, what a vengeance I will take for your 'mere suspicion in + that kind'! But to the serious matter ... nay, I said yesterday, I + believe—keep off that Burgess—he is stark staring mad—mad, do you + know? The last time I met him he told me he had recovered I forget how + many of the lost books of Thucydides—found them imbedded in Suidas (I + think), and had disengaged them from <i>his</i> Greek, without loss of a + letter, 'by an instinct he, Burgess, had'—(I spell his name wrongly + to help the proper <i>hiss</i> at the end). Then, once on a time, he found + in the 'Christus Patiens,' an odd dozen of lines, clearly dropped out + of the 'Prometheus,' and proving that Æschylus was aware of the + invention of gunpowder. He wanted to help Dr. Leonhard Schmitz in his + 'Museum'—and scared him, as Schmitz told me. What business has he, + Burges, with English verse—and what on earth, or under it, has Miss + Thomson to do with <i>him</i>. If she must displease one of two, why is Mr. + B. not to be thanked and 'sent to feed,' as the French say prettily? + At all events, do pray see what he has presumed to alter ... you can + alter at sufficient warrant, profit by suggestion, I should think! But + it is all Miss Thomson's shame and fault: because she is quite in her + propriety, saying to such intermeddlers, gently for the sake of their + poor weak heads, 'very good, I dare say, very desirable emendations, + only the work is not mine, you know, but my friend's, and you must no + more alter it without her leave, than alter this sketch, this + illustration, because you think you could mend Ariadne's face or + figure,—Fecit Tizianus, scripsit E.B.B.' Dear friend, you will tell + Miss Thomson to stop further proceedings, will you not? There! only, + do mind what I say? +</p> +<p> + And now—till to-morrow! It seems an age since I saw you. I want to + catch our first post ... (this phrase I ought to get stereotyped—I + need it so constantly). The day is fine ... you will profit by it, I + trust. 'Flush, wag your tail and grow restless and scratch at the + door!' +</p> +<p> + God bless you,—my one friend, without an 'other'—bless you ever— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, August 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But what have <i>I</i> done that you should ask what have <i>you</i> done? I + have not brought any accusation, have I ... no, nor <i>thought</i> any, I + am sure—and it was only the 'kindness and considerateness'—argument + that was irresistible as a thing to be retorted, when your thanks came + so naturally and just at the corner of an application. And then, you + know, it is gravely true, seriously true, sadly true, that I am always + expecting to hear or to see how tired you are at last of me!—sooner + or later, you know!—But I did not mean any seriousness in that + letter. No, nor did I mean ... (to pass to another question ...) to + provoke you to the +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Mister Hayley ... so are <i>you</i>.... +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + reply complimentary. All I observed concerning yourself, was the + <i>combination</i>—which not an idiom in chivalry could treat + grammatically as a thing common to <i>me</i> and you, inasmuch as everyone + who has known me for half a day, may know that, if there is anything + peculiar in me, it lies for the most part in an extraordinary + deficiency in this and this and this, ... there is no need to describe + what. Only nuns of the strictest sect of the nunneries are rather + wiser in some points, and have led less restricted lives than I have + in others. And if it had not been for my 'carpet-work'— +</p> +<p> + Well—and do you know that I have, for the last few years, taken quite + to despise book-knowledge and its effect on the mind—I mean when + people <i>live by it</i> as most readers by profession do, ... cloistering + their souls under these roofs made with heads, when they might be + under the sky. Such people grow dark and narrow and low, with all + their pains. +</p> +<p> + <i>Friday.</i>—I was writing you see before you came—and now I go on in + haste to speak 'off my mind' some things which are on it. First ... of + yourself; how can it be that you are unwell again, ... and that you + should talk (now did you not?—did I not hear you say so?) of being + 'weary in your soul' ... <i>you</i>? What should make <i>you</i>, dearest + friend, weary in your soul; or out of spirits in any way?—Do ... tell + me.... I was going to write without a pause—and almost I might, + perhaps, ... even as one of the two hundred of your friends, ... + almost I might say out that 'Do tell me.' Or is it (which I am + inclined to think most probable) that you are tired of a same life and + want change? It may happen to anyone sometimes, and is independent of + your will and choice, you know—and I know, and the whole world knows: + and would it not therefore be wise of you, in that case, to fold your + life new again and go abroad at once? What can make you weary in your + soul, is a problem to me. You are the last from whom I should have + expected such a word. And you did say so, I <i>think</i>. I <i>think</i> that it + was not a mistake of mine. And <i>you</i>, ... with a full liberty, and the + world in your hand for every purpose and pleasure of it!—Or is it + that, being unwell, your spirits are affected by <i>that</i>? But then you + might be more unwell than you like to admit—. And I am teasing you + with talking of it ... am I not?—and being disagreeable is only one + third of the way towards being useful, it is good to remember in time. +</p> +<p> + And then the next thing to write off my mind is ... that you must not, + you must not, make an unjust opinion out of what I said to-day. I have + been uncomfortable since, lest you should—and perhaps it would have + been better if I had not said it apart from all context in that way; + only that you could not long be a friend of mine without knowing and + seeing what so lies on the surface. But then, ... as far as I am + concerned, ... no one cares less for a 'will' than I do (and this + though I never had one, ... in clear opposition to your theory which + holds generally nevertheless) for a will in the common things of life. + Every now and then there must of course be a crossing and + vexation—but in one's mere pleasures and fantasies, one would rather + be crossed and vexed a little than vex a person one loves ... and it + is possible to get used to the harness and run easily in it at last; + and there is a side-world to hide one's thoughts in, and 'carpet-work' + to be immoral on in spite of Mrs. Jameson, ... and the word + 'literature' has, with me, covered a good deal of liberty as you must + see ... real liberty which is never enquired into—and it has happened + throughout my life by an accident (as far as anything is accident) + that my own sense of right and happiness on any important point of + overt action, has never run contrariwise to the way of obedience + required of me ... while in things not exactly <i>overt</i>, I and all of + us are apt to act sometimes up to the limit of our means of acting, + with shut doors and windows, and no waiting for cognisance or + permission. Ah—and that last is the worst of it all perhaps! to be + forced into concealments from the heart naturally nearest to us; and + forced away from the natural source of counsel and strength!—and + then, the disingenuousness—the cowardice—the 'vices of + slaves'!—and everyone you see ... all my brothers, ... constrained + <i>bodily</i> into submission ... apparent submission at least ... by that + worst and most dishonouring of necessities, the necessity of <i>living</i>, + everyone of them all, except myself, being dependent in money-matters + on the inflexible will ... do you see? But what you do <i>not</i> see, what + you <i>cannot</i> see, is the deep tender affection behind and below all + those patriarchal ideas of governing grown up children 'in the way + they <i>must</i> go!' and there never was (under the strata) a truer + affection in a father's heart ... no, nor a worthier heart in itself + ... a heart loyaller and purer, and more compelling to gratitude and + reverence, than his, as I see it! The evil is in the system—and he + simply takes it to be his duty to rule, and to make happy according to + his own views of the propriety of happiness—he takes it to be his + duty to rule like the Kings of Christendom, by divine right. But he + loves us through and through it—and <i>I</i>, for one, love <i>him</i>! and + when, five years ago, I lost what I loved best in the world beyond + comparison and rivalship ... far better than himself as he knew ... + for everyone who knew <i>me</i> could not choose but know what was my first + and chiefest affection ... when I lost <i>that</i>, ... I felt that he + stood the nearest to me on the closed grave ... or by the unclosing + sea ... I do not know which nor could ask. And I will tell you that + not only he has been kind and patient and forbearing to me through the + tedious trial of this illness (far more trying to standers by than you + have an idea of perhaps) but that he was generous and forbearing in + that hour of bitter trial, and never reproached me as he might have + done and as my own soul has not spared—never once said to me then or + since, that if it had not been for <i>me</i>, the crown of his house would + not have fallen. He <i>never did</i> ... and he might have said it, and + more—and I could have answered nothing. Nothing, except that I had + paid my own price—and that the price I paid was greater than his + <i>loss</i> ... his!! For see how it was; and how, 'not with my hand but + heart,' I was the cause or occasion of that misery—and though not + with the intention of my heart but with its weakness, yet the + <i>occasion</i>, any way! +</p> +<p> + They sent me down you know to Torquay—Dr. Chambers saying that I + could not live a winter in London. The worst—what people call the + worst—was apprehended for me at that time. So I was sent down with my + sister to my aunt there—and he, my brother whom I loved so, was sent + too, to take us there and return. And when the time came for him to + leave me, <i>I</i>, to whom he was the dearest of friends and brothers in + one ... the only one of my family who ... well, but I cannot write of + these things; and it is enough to tell you that he was above us all, + better than us all, and kindest and noblest and dearest to <i>me</i>, + beyond comparison, any comparison, as I said—and when the time came + for him to leave me <i>I</i>, weakened by illness, could not master my + spirits or drive back my tears—and my aunt kissed them away instead + of reproving me as she should have done; and said that <i>she</i> would + take care that I should not be grieved ... <i>she</i>! ... and so she sate + down and wrote a letter to Papa to tell him that he would 'break my + heart' if he persisted in calling away my brother—As if hearts were + broken <i>so</i>! I have thought bitterly since that my heart did not break + for a good deal more than <i>that</i>! And Papa's answer was—burnt into + me, as with fire, it is—that 'under such circumstances he did not + refuse to suspend his purpose, but that he considered it to be <i>very + wrong in me to exact such a thing</i>.' So there was no separation + <i>then</i>: and month after month passed—and sometimes I was better and + sometimes worse—and the medical men continued to say that they would + not answer for my life ... they! if I were agitated—and so there was + no more talk of a separation. And once <i>he</i> held my hand, ... how I + remember! and said that he 'loved me better than them all and that he + <i>would not</i> leave me ... till I was well,' he said! how I remember + <i>that</i>! And ten days from that day the boat had left the shore which + never returned; never—and he <i>had</i> left me! gone! For three days we + waited—and I hoped while I could—oh—that awful agony of three days! + And the sun shone as it shines to-day, and there was no more wind than + now; and the sea under the windows was like this paper for + smoothness—and my sisters drew the curtains back that I might see for + myself how smooth the sea was, and how it could hurt nobody—and other + boats came back one by one. +</p> +<p> + Remember how you wrote in your 'Gismond' +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">What says the body when they spring<br> +Some monstrous torture-engine's whole<br> +Strength on it? No more says the soul, +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + and you never wrote anything which <i>lived</i> with me more than <i>that</i>. + It is such a dreadful truth. But you knew it for truth, I hope, by + your genius, and not by such proof as mine—I, who could not speak or + shed a tear, but lay for weeks and months half conscious, half + unconscious, with a wandering mind, and too near to God under the + crushing of His hand, to pray at all. I expiated all my weak tears + before, by not being able to shed then one tear—and yet they were + forbearing—and no voice said 'You have done this.' +</p> +<p> + Do not notice what I have written to you, my dearest friend. I have + never said so much to a living being—I never <i>could</i> speak or write + of it. I asked no question from the moment when my last hope went: and + since then, it has been impossible for me to speak what was in me. I + have borne to do it to-day and to you, but perhaps if you were to + write—so do not let this be noticed between us again—<i>do not</i>! And + besides there is no need! I do not reproach myself with such acrid + thoughts as I had once—I <i>know</i> that I would have died ten times over + for <i>him</i>, and that therefore though it was wrong of me to be weak, + and I have suffered for it and shall learn by it I hope; <i>remorse</i> is + not precisely the word for me—not at least in its full sense. Still + you will comprehend from what I have told you how the spring of life + must have seemed to break within me <i>then</i>; and how natural it has + been for me to loathe the living on—and to lose faith (even without + the loathing), to lose faith in myself ... which I have done on some + points utterly. It is not from the cause of illness—no. And you will + comprehend too that I have strong reasons for being grateful to the + forbearance.... It would have been <i>cruel</i>, you think, to reproach me. + Perhaps so! yet the kindness and patience of the desisting from + reproach, are positive things all the same. +</p> +<p> + Shall I be too late for the post, I wonder? Wilson tells me that you + were followed up-stairs yesterday (I write on Saturday this latter + part) by somebody whom you probably took for my father. Which is + Wilson's idea—and I hope not yours. No—it was neither father nor + other relative of mine, but an old friend in rather an ill temper. +</p> +<p> + And so good-bye until Tuesday. Perhaps I shall ... not ... hear from + you to-night. Don't let the tragedy or aught else do you harm—will + you? and try not to be 'weary in your soul' any more—and forgive me + this gloomy letter I half shrink from sending you, yet will send. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning,<br> +[Post-mark, August 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + On the subject of your letter—quite irrespective of the injunction in + it—I would not have dared speak; now, at least. But I may permit + myself, perhaps, to say I am <i>most</i> grateful, <i>most grateful</i>, dearest + friend, for this admission to participate, in my degree, in these + feelings. There is a better thing than being happy in your happiness; + I feel, now that you teach me, it is so. I will write no more now; + though that sentence of 'what you are <i>expecting</i>,—that I shall be + tired of you &c.,'—though I <i>could</i> blot that out of your mind for + ever by a very few words <i>now</i>,—for you <i>would believe</i> me at this + moment, close on the other subject:—but I will take no such + advantage—I will wait. +</p> +<p> + I have many things (indifferent things, after those) to say; will you + write, if but a few lines, to change the associations for that + purpose? Then I will write too.— +</p> +<p> + May God bless you,—in what is past and to come! I pray that from my + heart, being yours +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning,<br> +[Post-mark, August 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But your 'Saul' is unobjectionable as far as I can see, my dear + friend. He was tormented by an evil spirit—but how, we are not told + ... and the consolation is not obliged to be definite, ... is it? A + singer was sent for as a singer—and all that you are called upon to + be true to, are the general characteristics of David the chosen, + standing between his sheep and his dawning hereafter, between + innocence and holiness, and with what you speak of as the 'gracious + gold locks' besides the chrism of the prophet, on his own head—and + surely you have been happy in the tone and spirit of these lyrics ... + broken as you have left them. Where is the wrong in all this? For the + right and beauty, they are more obvious—and I cannot tell you how the + poem holds me and will not let me go until it blesses me ... and so, + where are the 'sixty lines' thrown away? I do beseech you ... you who + forget nothing, ... to remember them directly, and to go on with the + rest ... <i>as</i> directly (be it understood) as is not injurious to your + health. The whole conception of the poem, I like ... and the execution + is exquisite up to this point—and the sight of Saul in the tent, just + struck out of the dark by that sunbeam, 'a thing to see,' ... not to + say that afterwards when he is visibly 'caught in his fangs' like the + king serpent, ... the sight is grander still. How could you doubt + about this poem.... +</p> +<p> + At the moment of writing which, I receive your note. Do <i>you</i> receive + my assurances from the deepest of my heart that I never did otherwise + than <i>'believe' you</i> ... never did nor shall do ... and that you + completely misinterpreted my words if you drew another meaning from + them. Believe <i>me</i> in this—will you? I could not believe <i>you</i> any + more for anything you could say, now or hereafter—and so do not + avenge yourself on my unwary sentences by remembering them against me + for evil. I did not mean to vex you ... still less to suspect + you—indeed I did not! and moreover it was quite your fault that I did + not blot it out after it was written, whatever the meaning was. So you + forgive me (altogether) for your own sins: you must:— +</p> +<p> + For my part, though I have been sorry since to have written you such a + gloomy letter, the sorrow unmakes itself in hearing you speak so + kindly. Your sympathy is precious to me, I may say. May God bless you. + Write and tell me among the 'indifferent things' something not + indifferent, how you are yourself, I mean ... for I fear you are not + well and thought you were not looking so yesterday. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Dearest friend, I remain yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, August 30, 1845]. +</p> +<p> + I do not hear; and come to you to ask the alms of just one line, + having taken it into my head that something is the matter. It is not + so much exactingness on my part, as that you spoke of meaning to write + as soon as you received a note of mine ... which went to you five + minutes afterwards ... which is three days ago, or will be when you + read this. Are you not well—or what? Though I have tried and <i>wished</i> + to remember having written in the last note something very or even a + little offensive to you, I failed in it and go back to the worse fear. + For you could not be vexed with me for talking of what was 'your + fault' ... 'your own fault,' viz. in having to read sentences which, + but for your commands, would have been blotted out. You could not very + well take <i>that</i> for serious blame! from <i>me</i> too, who have so much + reason and provocation for blaming the archangel Gabriel.—No—you + could not misinterpret so,—and if you could not, and if you are not + displeased with me, you must be unwell, I think. I took for granted + yesterday that you had gone out as before—but to-night it is + different—and so I come to ask you to be kind enough to write one + word for me by some post to-morrow. Now remember ... I am not asking + for a letter—but for a <i>word</i> ... or line strictly speaking. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, dear friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, August 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + This sweet Autumn Evening, Friday, comes all golden into the room and + makes me write to you—not think of you—yet what shall I write? +</p> +<p> + It must be for another time ... after Monday, when I am to see you, + you know, and hear if the headache be gone, since your note would not + round to the perfection of kindness and comfort, and tell me so. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless my dearest friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + I am much better—well, indeed—thank you. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, August 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Can you understand me <i>so</i>, dearest friend, after all? Do you see + me—when I am away, or with you—'taking offence' at words, 'being + vexed' at words, or deeds of yours, even if I could not immediately + trace them to their source of entire, pure kindness; as I have + hitherto done in every smallest instance? +</p> +<p> + I believe in <i>you</i> absolutely, utterly—I believe that when you bade + me, that time, be silent—that such was your bidding, and I was + silent—dare I say I think you did not know at that time the power I + have over myself, that I could sit and speak and listen as I have done + since? Let me say now—<i>this only once</i>—that I loved you from my + soul, and gave you my life, so much of it as you would take,—and all + that is <i>done</i>, not to be altered now: it was, in the nature of the + proceeding, wholly independent of any return on your part. I will not + think on extremes you might have resorted to; as it is, the assurance + of your friendship, the intimacy to which you admit me, <i>now</i>, make + the truest, deepest joy of my life—a joy I can never think fugitive + while we are in life, because I <SPAN class="sc-ex">know</span>, as to me, I <i>could</i> not + willingly displease you,—while, as to you, your goodness and + understanding will always see to the bottom of involuntary or ignorant + faults—always help me to correct them. I have done now. If I thought + you were like other women I have known, I should say so + much!—but—(my first and last word—I <i>believe</i> in you!)—what you + could and would give me, of your affection, you would give nobly and + simply and as a giver—you would not need that I tell you—(<i>tell</i> + you!)—what would be supreme happiness to me in the event—however + distant— +</p> +<p> + I repeat ... I call on your justice to remember, on your intelligence + to believe ... that this is merely a more precise stating the <i>first</i> + subject; to put an end to any possible misunderstanding—to prevent + your henceforth believing that because I <i>do not write</i>, from thinking + too deeply of you, I am offended, vexed &c. &c. I will never recur to + this, nor shall you see the least difference in my manner next Monday: + it is indeed, always before me ... how I know nothing of you and + yours. But I think I ought to have spoken when I did—and to speak + clearly ... or more clearly what I do, as it is my pride and duty to + fall back, now, on the feeling with which I have been in the + meantime—Yours—God bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + Let me write a few words to lead into Monday—and say, you have + probably received my note. I am much better—with a little headache, + which is all, and fast going this morning. Of yours you say nothing—I + trust you see your ... dare I say your <i>duty</i> in the Pisa affair, as + all else <i>must</i> see it—shall I hear on Monday? And my 'Saul' that you + are so lenient to. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you ever— +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[August 31, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I did not think you were angry—I never said so. But you might + reasonably have been wounded a little, if you had suspected me of + blaming you for any bearing of yours towards myself; and this was the + amount of my fear—or rather hope ... since I conjectured most that + you were not well. And after all you did think ... do think ... that + in some way or for some moment I blamed you, disbelieved you, + distrusted you—or why this letter? How have I provoked this letter? + Can I forgive myself for having even seemed to have provoked it? and + will you believe me that if for the past's sake you sent it, it was + unnecessary, and if for the future's, irrelevant? Which I say from no + want of sensibility to the words of it—your words always make + themselves felt—but in fulness of purpose not to suffer you to hold + to words because they have been said, nor to say them as if to be + holden by them. Why, if a thousand more such words were said by you to + me, how could they operate upon the future or present, supposing me to + choose to keep the possible modification of your feelings, as a + probability, in my sight and yours? Can you help my sitting with the + doors all open if I think it right? I do attest to you—while I trust + you, as you must see, in word and act, and while I am confident that + no human being ever stood higher or purer in the eyes of another, than + you do in mine,—that you would still stand high and remain + unalterably my friend, if the probability in question became a fact, + as now at this moment. And this I must say, since you have said other + things: and this alone, which <i>I</i> have said, concerns the future, I + remind you earnestly. +</p> +<p> + My dearest friend—you have followed the most <i>generous</i> of impulses + in your whole bearing to me—and I have recognised and called by its + name, in my heart, each one of them. Yet I cannot help adding that, of + us two, yours has not been quite the hardest part ... I mean, to a + generous nature like your own, to which every sort of nobleness comes + easily. Mine has been more difficult—and I have sunk under it again + and again: and the sinking and the effort to recover the duty of a + lost position, may have given me an appearance of vacillation and + lightness, unworthy at least of <i>you</i>, and perhaps of both of us. + Notwithstanding which appearance, it was right and just (only just) of + you, to believe in me—in my truth—because I have never failed to you + in it, nor been capable of <i>such</i> failure: the thing I have said, I + have meant ... always: and in things I have not said, the silence has + had a reason somewhere different perhaps from where you looked for it. + And this brings me to complaining that you, who profess to believe in + me, do yet obviously believe that it was only merely silence, which I + required of you on one occasion—and that if I had 'known your power + over yourself,' I should not have minded ... no! In other words you + believe of me that I was thinking just of my own (what shall I call it + for a motive base and small enough?) my own scrupulousness ... freedom + from embarrassment! of myself in the least of me; in the tying of my + shoestrings, say!—so much and no more! Now this is so wrong, as to + make me impatient sometimes in feeling it to be your impression: I + asked for silence—but <i>also</i> and chiefly for the putting away of ... + you know very well what I asked for. And this was sincerely done, I + attest to you. You wrote once to me ... oh, long before May and the + day we met: that you 'had been so happy, you should be now justified + to yourself in taking any step most hazardous to the happiness of your + life'—but if you were justified, could <i>I</i> be therefore justified in + abetting such a step,—the step of wasting, in a sense, your best + feelings ... of emptying your water gourds into the sand? What I + thought then I think now—just what any third person, knowing you, + would think, I think and feel. I thought too, at first, that the + feeling on your part was a mere generous impulse, likely to expand + itself in a week perhaps. It affects me and has affected me, very + deeply, more than I dare attempt to say, that you should persist + <i>so</i>—and if sometimes I have felt, by a sort of instinct, that after + all you would not go on to persist, and that (being a man, you know) + you might mistake, a little unconsciously, the strength of your own + feeling; you ought not to be surprised; when I felt it was more + advantageous and happier for you that it should be so. <i>In any case</i>, + I shall never regret my own share in the events of this summer, and + your friendship will be dear to me to the last. You know I told you + so—not long since. And as to what you say otherwise, you are right in + thinking that I would not hold by unworthy motives in avoiding to + speak what you had any claim to hear. But what could I speak that + would not be unjust to you? Your life! if you gave it to me and I put + my whole heart into it; what should I put but anxiety, and more + sadness than you were born to? What could I give you, which it would + not be ungenerous to give? Therefore we must leave this subject—and I + must trust you to leave it without one word more; (too many have been + said already—but I could not let your letter pass quite silently ... + as if I had nothing to do but to receive all as matter of course + <i>so</i>!) while you may well trust <i>me</i> to remember to my life's end, as + the grateful remember; and to feel, as those do who have felt sorrow + (for where these pits are dug, the water will stand), the full price + of your regard. May God bless you, my dearest friend. I shall send + this letter after I have seen you, and hope you may not have expected + to hear sooner. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday, 6 p.m.</i>—I send in <i>dis</i>obedience to your commands, Mrs. + Shelley's book—but when books accumulate and when besides, I want to + let you have the American edition of my poems ... famous for all + manner of blunders, you know; what is to be done but have recourse to + the parcel-medium? You were in jest about being at Pisa <i>before or as + soon as we were</i>?—oh no—that must not be indeed—we must wait a + little!—even if you determine to go at all, which is a question of + doubtful expediency. Do take more exercise, this week, and make war + against those dreadful sensations in the head—now, will you? +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, September 3, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I rather hoped ... with no right at all ... to hear from you this + morning or afternoon—to know how you are—that, 'how are you,' there + is no use disguising, is,—vary it how one may—my own life's + question.— +</p> +<p> + I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about + you—the head; and that too, <i>too</i> warm hand ... or was it my fancy? + Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory,—all seems to + rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you <i>do</i> know that <i>I</i> + know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone's counsel 'to be + composed,' &c. &c. But try, dearest friend! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, September 3, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Before you leave London, I will answer your letter—all my attempts + end in nothing now— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Dearest friend—I am yours ever</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + But meantime, you will tell me about yourself, will you not? The + parcel came a few minutes after my note left—Well, I can thank you + for <i>that</i>; for the Poems,—though I cannot wear them round my + neck—and for the too great trouble. My heart's friend! Bless you— +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Indeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about—I mean, they are + not of the slightest consequence, and seldom survive the remedy of a + cup of coffee. I only wish it were the same with everybody—I mean, + with every <i>head</i>! Also there is nothing the matter otherwise—and I + am going to prove my right to a 'clean bill of health' by going into + the park in ten minutes. Twice round the inner enclosure is what I can + compass now—which is equal to once round the world—is it not? +</p> +<p> + I had just time to be afraid that the parcel had not reached you. The + reason why I sent you the poems was that I had a few copies to give to + my personal friends, and so, wished you to have one; and it was quite + to please myself and not to please <i>you</i> that I made you have it; and + if you put it into the 'plum-tree' to hide the errata, I shall be + pleased still, if not rather more. Only let me remember to tell you + this time in relation to those books and the question asked of + yourself by your noble Romans, that just as I was enclosing my + sixty-pounds debt to Mr. Moxon, I did actually and miraculously + receive a remittance of fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller + of New York who agreed last year to print my poems at his own risk and + give me 'ten per cent on the profit.' Not that I ever asked for such a + thing! They were the terms offered. And I always considered the 'per + centage' as quite visionary ... put in for the sake of effect, to make + the agreement look better! But no—you see! One's poetry has a real + 'commercial value,' if you do but take it far away enough from the + 'civilization of Europe.' When you get near the backwoods and the red + Indians, it turns out to be nearly as good for something as + 'cabbages,' after all! Do you remember what you said to me of cabbages + <i>versus</i> poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me?—of + selling cabbages and buying <i>Punches</i>? +</p> +<p> + People complain of Dr. Chambers and call him rough and + unfeeling—neither of which <i>I</i> ever found him for a moment—and I + like him for his truthfulness, which is the nature of the man, though + it is essential to medical morality never to let a patient think + himself mortal while it is possible to prevent it, and even Dr. + Chambers may incline to this on occasion. Still he need not have said + all the good he said to me on Saturday—he <i>used</i> not to say any of + it; and he must have thought some of it: and, any way, the Pisa-case + is strengthened all round by his opinion and injunction, so that all + my horror and terror at the thoughts of his visit, (and it's really + true that I would rather <i>suffer</i> to a certain extent than be <i>cured</i> + by means of those doctors!) had some compensation. How are you? do not + forget to say! I found among some papers to-day, a note of yours which + I asked Mr. Kenyon to give me for an autograph, two years ago. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, dearest friend. And I have a dispensation from + 'beef and porter' <span title="eis tous aiônas">εις τους αιωνας</span>. 'On no account' was the + answer! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, September 5, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + What you tell me of Dr. Chambers, 'all the good of you' he said, and + all I venture to infer; this makes me most happy and thankful. Do you + use to attach our old <span title="tuphlas elpidas">τυφλας + +ελπιδας</span> (and the practice of + instilling them) to that medical science in which Prometheus boasted + himself proficient? I had thought the 'faculty' dealt in fears, on the + contrary, and scared you into obedience: but I know most about the + doctors in Molière. However the joyous truth is—must be, that you are + better, and if one could transport you quietly to Pisa, save you all + worry,—what might one not expect! +</p> +<p> + When I know your own intentions—measures, I should say, respecting + your journey—mine will of course be submitted to you—it will just be + 'which day next—month'?—Not week, alas. +</p> +<p> + I can thank you now for this edition of your poems—I have not yet + taken to read it, though—for it does not, each volume of it, open + obediently to a thought, here, and here, and here, like my green books + ... no, my Sister's they are; so these you give me are really mine. + And America, with its ten per cent., shall have my better word + henceforth and for ever ... for when you calculate, there must have + been a really extraordinary circulation; and in a few months: it is + what newspapers call 'a great fact.' Have they reprinted the + 'Seraphim'? Quietly, perhaps! +</p> +<p> + I shall see you on Monday, then— +</p> +<p> + And my all-important headaches are tolerably kept under—headaches + proper they are not—but the noise and slight turning are less + troublesome—will soon go altogether. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you ever—ever dearest friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + <i>Oh, oh, oh!</i> As many thanks for that precious card-box and jewel of + a flower-holder as are consistent with my dismay at finding you <i>only</i> + return <i>them</i> ... and not the costly brown paper wrappages also ... to + say nothing of the inestimable pins with which my sister uses to + fasten the same! +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, September 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I am in the greatest difficulty about the steamers. Will you think a + little for me and tell me what is best to do? It appears that the + direct Leghorn steamer will not sail on the third, and may not until + the middle of October, and if forced to still further delay, which is + possible, will not at all. One of my brothers has been to Mr. Andrews + of St. Mary Axe and heard as much as this. What shall I do? The middle + of October, say my sisters ... and I half fear that it may prove so + ... is too late for me—to say nothing for the uncertainty which + completes the difficulty. +</p> +<p> + On the 20th of September (on the other hand) sails the Malta vessel; + and I hear that I may go in it to Gibraltar and find a French steamer + there to proceed by. Is there an objection to this—except the change + of steamers ... repeated ... for I must get down to Southampton—and + the leaving England so soon? Is any better to be done? Do think for me + a little. And now that the doing comes so near ... and in this dead + silence of Papa's ... it all seems impossible, ... and I seem to see + the stars <i>constellating</i> against me, and give it as my serious + opinion to you that I shall not go. Now, mark. +</p> +<p> + But I have had the kindest of letters from dear Mr. Kenyon, urging + it—. +</p> +<p> + Well—I have no time for writing any more—and this is only a note of + business to bespeak your thoughts about the steamers. My wisdom looks + back regretfully ... only rather too late ... on the Leghorn vessel + of the third of September. It would have been wise if I had gone + <i>then</i>. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you, dearest friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + But if your head turns still, ... <i>do</i> you walk enough? Is there not + fault in your not walking, by your own confession? Think of this + first—and then, if you please, of the steamers. +</p> +<p> + So, till Monday!— +</p> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, September 9, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + One reason against printing the tragedies now, is your not being well + enough for the necessary work connected with them, ... a sure reason + and strong ... nay, chiefest of all. Plainly you are unfit for work + now—and even to complete the preparation of the lyrics, and take them + through the press, may be too much for you, I am afraid; and if so, + why you will not do it—will you?—you will wait for another year,—or + at least be satisfied for this, with bringing out a number of the old + size, consisting of such poems as are fairly finished and require no + retouching. 'Saul' for instance, you might leave—! You will not let + me hear when I am gone, of your being ill—you will take care ... will + you not? Because you see ... or rather <i>I</i> see ... you are <i>not</i> + looking well at all—no, you are not! and even if you do not care for + that, you should and must care to consider how unavailing it will be + for you to hold those golden keys of the future with a more resolute + hand than your contemporaries, should you suffer yourself to be struck + down before the gate ... should you lose the physical power while + keeping the heart and will. Heart and will are great things, and + sufficient things in your case—but after all we carry a barrow-full + of clay about with us, and we must carry it a little carefully if we + mean to keep to the path and not run zigzag into the border of the + garden. A figure which reminds me ... and I wanted no figure to remind + me ... to ask you to thank your sister for me and from me for all her + kindness about the flowers. Now you will not forget? you must not. + When I think of the repeated trouble she has taken week after week, + and all for a stranger, I must think again that it has been very + kind—and I take the liberty of saying so moreover ... <i>as I am not + thanking you</i>. Also these flowers of yesterday, which yesterday you + disdained so, look full of summer and are full of fragrance, and when + they seem to say that it is not September, I am willing to be lied to + just <i>so</i>. For I wish it were not September. I wish it were July ... + or November ... two months before or after: and that this journey were + thrown behind or in front ... anywhere to be out of sight. You do not + know the courage it requires to hold the intention of it fast through + what I feel sometimes. If it (the courage) had been prophesied to me + only a year ago, the prophet would have been laughed to scorn. + Well!—but I want you to see. George's letter, and how he and Mrs. + Hedley, when she saw Papa's note of consent to me, give unhesitating + counsel. Burn it when you have read it. It is addressed to me ... + which you will doubt from the address of it perhaps ... seeing that it + goes <span title="ba ... rbarizôn">βα ... ρβαριζων</span>. We are famous in this house for what + are called nick-names ... though a few of us have escaped rather by a + caprice than a reason: and I am never called anything else (never at + all) except by the nom de <i>paix</i> which you find written in the + letter:—proving as Mr. Kenyon says, that I am just 'half a Ba-by' ... + no more nor less;—and in fact the name has that precise definition. + Burn the note when you have read it. +</p> +<p> + And then I take it into my head, as you do not distinguish my sisters, + you say, one from the other, to send you my own account of them in + these enclosed 'sonnets' which were written a few weeks ago, and + though only pretending to be 'sketches,' pretend to be like, as far as + they go, and <i>are</i> like—my brothers thought—when I 'showed them + against' a profile drawn in pencil by Alfred, on the same subjects. I + was laughing and maintaining that mine should be as like as his—and + he yielded the point to me. So it is mere portrait-painting—and you + who are in 'high art,' must not be too scornful. Henrietta is the + elder, and the one who brought you into this room first—and Arabel, + who means to go with me to Pisa, has been the most with me through my + illness and is the least wanted in the house here, ... and perhaps ... + perhaps—is my favourite—though my heart smites me while I write that + unlawful word. They are both affectionate and kind to me in all + things, and good and lovable in their own beings—very unlike, for the + rest; one, most caring for the Polka, ... and the other for the sermon + preached at Paddington Chapel, ... <i>that</i> is Arabel ... so if ever you + happen to know her you must try not to say before her how 'much you + hate &c.' Henrietta always 'managed' everything in the house even + before I was ill, ... because she liked it and I didn't, and I waived + my right to the sceptre of dinner-ordering. +</p> +<p> + I have been thinking much of your 'Sordello' since you spoke of + it—and even, I <i>had</i> thought much of it before you spoke of it + yesterday; feeling that it might be thrown out into the light by your + hand, and greatly justify the additional effort. It is like a noble + picture with its face to the wall just now—or at least, in the + shadow. And so worthy as it is of you in all ways! individual all + through: you have <i>made</i> even the darkness of it! And such a work as + it might become if you chose ... if you put your will to it! What I + meant to say yesterday was not that it wanted more additional verses + than the 'ten per cent' you spoke of ... though it does perhaps ... so + much as that (to my mind) it wants drawing together and fortifying in + the connections and associations ... which hang as loosely every here + and there, as those in a dream, and confound the reader who persists + in thinking himself awake. +</p> +<p> + How do you mean that I am 'lenient'? Do you not believe that I tell + you what I think, and as I think it? I may <i>think wrong</i>, to be + sure—but <i>that</i> is not my fault:—and so there is no use reproaching + me generally, unless you can convict me definitely at the same + time:—is there, now? +</p> +<p> + And I have been reading and admiring these letters of Mr. Carlyle, and + receiving the greatest pleasure from them in every way. He is greatly + <i>himself always</i>—which is the hardest thing for a man to be, perhaps. + And what his appreciation of you is, it is easy to see—and what he + expects from you—notwithstanding that prodigious advice of his, to + write your next work in prose! Also Mrs. Carlyle's letter—thank you + for letting me see it. I admire <i>that</i> too! It is as ingenious 'a + case' against poor Keats, as could well be drawn—but nobody who knew + very deeply what poetry <i>is</i>, <i>could</i>, you know, draw any case against + him. A poet of the senses, he may be and is, just as she says—but + then it is of the senses idealized; and no dream in a 'store-room' + would ever be like the 'Eve of St. Agnes,' unless dreamed by some + 'animosus infans,' like Keats himself. Still it is all true ... isn't + it?... what she observes of the want of thought as thought. He was a + <i>seer</i> strictly speaking. And what noble oppositions—(to go back to + Carlyle's letters) ... he writes to the things you were speaking of + yesterday! These letters are as good as Milton's picture for + convicting and putting to shame. Is not the difference between the men + of our day and 'the giants which were on the earth,' less ... far less + ... in the faculty ... in the gift, ... or in the general intellect, + ... than in the stature of the soul itself? Our inferiority is not in + what we can do, but in what we are. We should write poems like Milton + if [we] lived them like Milton. +</p> +<p> + I write all this just to show, I suppose, that I am not industrious as + you did me the honour of apprehending that I was going to be ... + packing trunks perhaps ... or what else in the way of 'active + usefulness.' +</p> +<p> + Say how you are—will you? And do take care, and walk and do what is + good for you. I shall be able to see you twice before I go. And oh, + this going! Pray for me, dearest friend. May God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, September 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Here are your beautiful, and I am sure <i>true</i> sonnets; they look + true—I remember the light hair, I find. And who paints, and dares + exhibit, E.B.B.'s self? And surely 'Alfred's' pencil has not foregone + its best privilege, not left <i>the</i> face unsketched? Italians call such + an 'effect defective'—'l'andar a Roma senza vedere il Papa.' He must + have begun by seeing his Holiness, I know, and ... <i>he</i> will not trust + me with the result, that my sister may copy it for me, because we are + strangers, he and I, and I could give him nothing, nothing like the + proper price for it—but <i>you</i> would lend it to me, I think, nor need + I do more than thank you in my usual effective and very eloquent + way—for I have already been allowed to visit you seventeen times, do + you know; and this last letter of yours, fiftieth is the same! So all + my pride is gone, pride in that sense—and I mean to take of you for + ever, and reconcile myself with my lot in this life. Could, and would, + you give me such a sketch? It has been on my mind to ask you ever + since I knew you if nothing in the way of <i>good</i> portrait existed—and + this occasion bids me speak out, I dare believe: the more, that you + have also quieted—have you not?—another old obstinate and very + likely impertinent questioning of mine—as to the little name which + was neither Orinda, nor Sacharissa (for which thank providence) and is + never to appear in books, though you write them. Now I know it and + write it—'Ba'—and thank you, and your brother George, and only + burned his kind letter because you bade me who know best. So, wish by + wish, one gets one's wishes—at least I do—for one instance, you will + go to Italy +</p> +<center> +<img src="images/image01b.png" width="500" height="86" +alt="Music followed by ? "> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + Why, 'lean and harken after it' as Donne says— +</p> +<p> + Don't expect Neapolitan Scenery at Pisa, quite in the North, remember. + Mrs. Shelley found Italy for the first time, real Italy, at Sorrento, + she says. Oh that book—does one wake or sleep? The 'Mary dear' with + the brown eyes, and Godwin's daughter and Shelley's wife, and who + surely was something better once upon a time—and to go through Rome + and Florence and the rest, after what I suppose to be Lady + Londonderry's fashion: the intrepidity of the commonplace quite + astounds me. And then that way, when she and the like of her are put + in a new place, with new flowers, new stones, faces, walls, all + new—of looking wisely up at the sun, clouds, evening star, or + mountain top and wisely saying 'who shall describe <i>that</i> sight!'—Not + <i>you</i>, we very well see—but why don't you tell us that at Rome they + eat roasted chestnuts, and put the shells into their aprons, the women + do, and calmly empty the whole on the heads of the passengers in the + street below; and that at Padua when a man drives his waggon up to a + house and stops, all the mouse-coloured oxen that pull it from a beam + against their foreheads sit down in a heap and rest. But once she + travelled the country with Shelley on arm; now she plods it, Rogers in + hand—to such things and uses may we come at last! Her remarks on art, + once she lets go of Rio's skirts, are amazing—Fra Angelico, for + instance, only painted Martyrs, Virgins &c., she had no eyes for the + divine <i>bon-bourgeoisie</i> of his pictures; the dear common folk of his + crowds, those who sit and listen (spectacle at nose and bent into a + comfortable heap to hear better) at the sermon of the Saint—and the + children, and women,—divinely pure they all are, but fresh from the + streets and market place—but she is wrong every where, that is, not + right, not seeing what is to see, speaking what one expects to hear—I + quarrel with her, for ever, I think. +</p> +<p> + I am much better, and mean to be well as you desire—shall correct the + verses you have seen, and make them do for the present. +</p> +<p> + Saturday, then! And one other time only, do you say? +</p> +<p> + God bless you, my own, best friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours ever</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, September 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Will you come on Friday ... to-morrow ... instead of Saturday—will it + be the same thing? Because I have heard from Mr. Kenyon, who is to be + in London on Friday evening he says, and therefore may mean to visit + me on Saturday I imagine. So let it be Friday—if you should not, for + any reason, prove Monday to be better still. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, September 13, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Now, dearest, I will try and write the little I shall be able, in + reply to your letter of last week—and first of all I have to entreat + you, now more than ever, to help me and understand from the few words + the feelings behind them—(should <i>speak</i> rather more easily, I + think—but I dare not run the risk: and I know, after all, you will be + just and kind where you can.) I have read your letter again and + again. I will tell you—no, not <i>you</i>, but any imaginary other person, + who should hear what I am going to avow; I would tell that person most + sincerely there is not a particle of fatuity, shall I call it, in that + avowal; cannot be, seeing that from the beginning and at this moment I + never dreamed of winning your <i>love</i>. I can hardly write this word, so + incongruous and impossible does it seem; such a change of our places + does it imply—nor, next to that, though long after, <i>would</i> I, if I + <i>could</i>, supplant one of any of the affections that I know to have + taken root in you—<i>that</i> great and solemn one, for instance. I feel + that if I could get myself <i>remade</i>, as if turned to gold, I <SPAN class="sc-ex">would</span> not + even then desire to become more than the mere setting to <i>that</i> + diamond you must always wear. The regard and esteem you now give me, + in this letter, and which I press to my heart and bow my head upon, is + all I can take and all too embarrassing, using <i>all</i> my gratitude. And + yet, with that contented pride in being infinitely your debtor as it + is, bound to you for ever as it is; when I read your letter with all + the determination to be just to us both; I dare not so far withstand + the light I am master of, as to refuse seeing that whatever is + recorded as an objection to your disposing of that life of mine I + would give you, has reference to some supposed good in that life which + your accepting it would destroy (of which fancy I shall speak + presently)—I say, wonder as I may at this, I cannot but find it + there, surely there. I could no more 'bind <i>you</i> by words,' than you + have bound me, as you say—but if I misunderstand you, one assurance + to that effect will be but too intelligible to me—but, as it <i>is</i>, I + have difficulty in imagining that while one of so many reasons, which + I am not obliged to repeat to myself, but which any one easily + conceives; while <i>any one</i> of those reasons would impose silence on me + <i>for ever</i> (for, as I observed, I love you as you now are, and <i>would</i> + not remove one affection that is already part of you,)—<i>would</i> you, + being able to speak <i>so</i>, only say <i>that you</i> desire not to put 'more + sadness than I was born to,' into my life?—that you 'could give me + only what it were ungenerous to give'? +</p> +<p> + Have I your meaning here? In so many words, is it on my account that + you bid me 'leave this subject'? I think if it were so, I would for + once call my advantages round me. I am not what your generous + self-forgetting appreciation would sometimes make me out—but it is + not since yesterday, nor ten nor twenty years before, that I began to + look into my own life, and study its end, and requirements, what would + turn to its good or its loss—and I <i>know</i>, if one may know anything, + that to make that life yours and increase it by union with yours, + would render me <i>supremely happy</i>, as I said, and say, and feel. My + whole suit to you is, in that sense, <i>selfish</i>—not that I am ignorant + that <i>your</i> nature would most surely attain happiness in being + conscious that it made another happy—but <i>that best, best end of + all</i>, would, like the rest, come from yourself, be a reflection of + your own gift. +</p> +<p> + Dearest, I will end here—words, persuasion, arguments, if they were + at my service I would not use them—I believe in you, altogether have + faith in you—in you. I will not think of insulting by trying to + reassure you on one point which certain phrases in your letter might + at first glance seem to imply—you do not understand me to be living + and labouring and writing (and <i>not</i> writing) in order to be + successful in the world's sense? I even convinced the people <i>here</i> + what was my true 'honourable position in society,' &c. &c. therefore I + shall not have to inform <i>you</i> that I desire to be very rich, very + great; but not in reading Law gratis with dear foolish old Basil + Montagu, as he ever and anon bothers me to do;—much less—enough of + this nonsense. +</p> +<p> + 'Tell me what I have a claim to hear': I can hear it, and be as + grateful as I was before and am now—your friendship is my pride and + happiness. If you told me your love was bestowed elsewhere, and that + it was in my power to serve you <i>there</i>, to serve you there would + still be my pride and happiness. I look on and on over the prospect of + my love, it is all <i>on</i>wards—and all possible forms of unkindness ... + I quite laugh to think how they are <i>behind</i> ... cannot be encountered + in the route we are travelling! I submit to you and will obey you + implicitly—obey what I am able to conceive of your least desire, much + more of your expressed wish. But it was necessary to make this avowal, + among other reasons, for one which the world would recognize too. My + whole scheme of life (with its wants, material wants at least, closely + cut down) was long ago calculated—and it supposed <i>you</i>, the finding + such an one as you, utterly impossible—because in calculating one + goes upon <i>chances</i>, not on providence—how could I expect you? So for + my own future way in the world I have always refused to care—any one + who can live a couple of years and more on bread and potatoes as I did + once on a time, and who prefers a blouse and a blue shirt (such as I + now write in) to all manner of dress and gentlemanly appointment, and + who can, if necessary, groom a horse not so badly, or at all events + would rather do it all day long than succeed Mr. Fitzroy Kelly in the + Solicitor-Generalship,—such an one need not very much concern himself + beyond considering the lilies how they grow. But now I see you near + this life, all changes—and at a word, I will do all that ought to be + done, that every one used to say could be done, and let 'all my powers + find sweet employ' as Dr. Watts sings, in getting whatever is to be + got—not very much, surely. I would print these things, get them away, + and do this now, and go to you at Pisa with the news—at Pisa where + one may live for some £100 a year—while, lo, I seem to remember, I + <i>do</i> remember, that Charles Kean offered to give me 500 of those + pounds for any play that might suit him—to say nothing of Mr. Colburn + saying confidentially that he wanted more than his dinner 'a novel on + the subject of <i>Napoleon</i>'! So may one make money, if one does not + live in a house in a row, and feel impelled to take the Princess's + Theatre for a laudable development and exhibition of one's faculty. +</p> +<p> + Take the sense of all this, I beseech you, dearest—all you shall say + will be best—I am yours— +</p> +<p> + Yes, Yours ever. God bless you for all you have been, and are, and + will certainly be to me, come what He shall please! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I scarcely know how to write what is to be written nor indeed why it + is to be written and to what end. I have tried in vain—and you are + waiting to hear from me. I am unhappy enough even where I am + happy—but ungrateful nowhere—and I thank you from my + heart—profoundly from the depths of my heart ... which is nearly all + I can do. +</p> +<p> + One letter I began to write and asked in it how it could become me to + speak at all if '<i>from the beginning and at this moment you never + dreamed of</i>' ... and there, I stopped and tore the paper; because I + felt that you were too loyal and generous, for me to bear to take a + moment's advantage of the same, and bend down the very flowering + branch of your generosity (as it might be) to thicken a little the + fence of a woman's caution and reserve. You will not say that you have + not acted as if you 'dreamed'—and I will answer therefore to the + general sense of your letter and former letters, and admit at once + that I <i>did</i> state to you the difficulties most difficult to myself + ... though not all ... and that if I had been worthier of you I should + have been proportionably less in haste to 'bid you leave that + subject.' I do not understand how you can seem at the same moment to + have faith in my integrity and to have doubt whether all this time I + may not have felt a preference for another ... which you are ready + 'to serve,' you say. Which is generous in you—but in <i>me</i>, where were + the integrity? Could you really hold me to be blameless, and do you + think that truehearted women act usually so? Can it be necessary for + me to tell you that I could not have acted so, and did not? And shall + I shrink from telling you besides ... you, who have been generous to + me and have a right to hear it ... and have spoken to me in the name + of an affection and memory most precious and holy to me, in this same + letter ... that neither now nor formerly has any man been to my + feelings what you are ... and that if I were different in some + respects and free in others by the providence of God, I would accept + the great trust of your happiness, gladly, proudly, and gratefully; + and give away my own life and soul to that end. I <i>would</i> do it ... + <i>not, I do</i> ... observe! it is a truth without a consequence; only + meaning that I am not all stone—only proving that I am not likely to + consent to help you in wrong against yourself. You see in me what is + not:—<i>that</i>, I know: and you overlook in me what is unsuitable to you + ... <i>that</i> I know, and have sometimes told you. Still, because a + strong feeling from some sources is self-vindicating and ennobling to + the object of it, I will not say that, if it were proved to me that + you felt this for me, I would persist in putting the sense of my own + unworthiness between you and me—not being heroic, you know, nor + pretending to be so. But something worse than even a sense of + unworthiness, <i>God</i> has put between us! and judge yourself if to beat + your thoughts against the immovable marble of it, can be anything but + pain and vexation of spirit, waste and wear of spirit to you ... + judge! The present is here to be seen ... speaking for itself! and the + best future you can imagine for me, what a precarious thing it must be + ... a thing for making burdens out of ... only not for your carrying, + as I have vowed to my own soul. As dear Mr. Kenyon said to me to-day + in his smiling kindness ... 'In ten years you may be strong + perhaps'—or 'almost strong'! that being the encouragement of my best + friends! What would he say, do you think, if he could know or + guess...! what <i>could</i> he say but that you were ... a poet!—and I ... + still worse! <i>Never</i> let him know or guess! +</p> +<p> + And so if you are wise and would be happy (and you have excellent + practical sense after all and should exercise it) you must leave + me—these thoughts of me, I mean ... for if we might not be true + friends for ever, I should have less courage to say the other truth. + But we may be friends always ... and cannot be so separated, that your + happiness, in the knowledge of it, will not increase mine. And if you + will be persuaded by me, as you say, you will be persuaded <i>thus</i> ... + and consent to take a resolution and force your mind at once into + another channel. Perhaps I might bring you reasons of the class which + you tell me 'would silence you for ever.' I might certainly tell you + that my own father, if he knew that you had written to me <i>so</i>, and + that I had answered you—<i>so</i>, even, would not forgive me at the end + of ten years—and this, from none of the causes mentioned by me here + and in no disrespect to your name and your position ... though he does + not over-value poetry even in his daughter, and is apt to take the + world's measures of the means of life ... but for the singular reason + that he never <i>does</i> tolerate in his family (sons or daughters) the + development of one class of feelings. Such an objection I could not + bring to you of my own will—it rang hollow in my ears—perhaps I + thought even too little of it:—and I brought to you what I thought + much of, and cannot cease to think much of equally. Worldly thoughts, + these are not at all, nor have been: there need be no soiling of the + heart with any such:—and I will say, in reply to some words of yours, + that you cannot despise the gold and gauds of the world more than I + do, and should do even if I found a use for them. And if I <i>wished</i> to + be very poor, in the world's sense of poverty, I <i>could not</i>, with + three or four hundred a year of which no living will can dispossess + me. And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the + need of thinking of it? It seems so to me. +</p> +<p> + The obstacles then are of another character, and the stronger for + being so. Believe that I am grateful to you—<i>how</i> grateful, cannot be + shown in words nor even in tears ... grateful enough to be truthful in + all ways. You know I might have hidden myself from you—but I would + not: and by the truth told of myself, you may believe in the + earnestness with which I tell the other truths—of you ... and of this + subject. The subject will not bear consideration—it breaks in our + hands. But that God is stronger than we, cannot be a bitter thought to + you but a holy thought ... while He lets me, as much as I can be + anyone's, be only yours. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I do not know whether you imagine the precise effect of your letter on + me—very likely you do, and write it just for that—for I conceive + <i>all</i> from your goodness. But before I tell you what is that effect, + let me say in as few words as possible what shall stop any + fear—though only for a moment and on the outset—that you have been + misunderstood, that the goodness <i>outside</i>, and round and over all, + hides all or any thing. I understand you to signify to me that you + see, at this present, insurmountable obstacles to that—can I speak + it—entire gift, which I shall own, was, while I dared ask it, above + my hopes—and wishes, even, so it seems to me ... and yet could not + but be asked, so plainly was it dictated to me, by something quite out + of those hopes and wishes. Will it help me to say that once in this + Aladdin-cavern I knew I ought to stop for no heaps of jewel-fruit on + the trees from the very beginning, but go on to the lamp, <i>the</i> prize, + the last and best of all? Well, I understand you to pronounce that at + present you believe this gift impossible—and I acquiesce entirely—I + submit wholly to you; repose on you in all the faith of which I am + capable. Those obstacles are solely for <i>you</i> to see and to declare + ... had <i>I</i> seen them, be sure I should never have mocked you or + myself by affecting to pass them over ... what <i>were</i> obstacles, I + mean: but you <i>do</i> see them, I must think,—and perhaps they strike me + the more from my true, honest unfeigned inability to imagine what they + are,—not that I shall endeavour. After what you <i>also</i> apprise me of, + I know and am joyfully confident that if ever they cease to be what + you now consider them, you who see now <i>for me</i>, whom I implicitly + trust in to see for me; you will <i>then</i>, too, see and remember me, and + how I trust, and shall then be still trusting. And until you so see, + and so inform me, I shall never utter a word—for that would involve + the vilest of implications. I thank God—I <i>do</i> thank him, that in + this whole matter I have been, to the utmost of my power, not unworthy + of his introducing you to me, in this respect that, being no longer in + the first freshness of life, and having for many years now made up my + mind to the impossibility of loving any woman ... having wondered at + this in the beginning, and fought not a little against it, having + acquiesced in it at last, and accounted for it all to myself, and + become, if anything, rather proud of it than sorry ... I say, when + real love, making itself at once recognized as such, <i>did</i> reveal + itself to me at last, I <i>did</i> open my heart to it with a cry—nor care + for its overturning all my theory—nor mistrust its effect upon a mind + set in ultimate order, so I fancied, for the few years more—nor + apprehend in the least that the new element would harm what was + already organized without its help. Nor have I, either, been guilty of + the more pardonable folly, of treating the new feeling after the + pedantic fashions and instances of the world. I have not spoken when + <i>it</i> did not speak, because 'one' might speak, or has spoken, or + <i>should</i> speak, and 'plead' and all that miserable work which, after + all, I may well continue proud that I am not called to attempt. <i>Here</i> + for instance, <i>now</i> ... 'one' should despair; but 'try again' first, + and work blindly at removing those obstacles (—if I saw them, I + should be silent, and only speak when a month hence, ten years hence, + I could bid you look where they <i>were</i>)—and 'one' would do all this, + not for the <i>play-acting's</i> sake, or to 'look the character' ... + (<i>that</i> would be something quite different from folly ...) but from a + not unreasonable anxiety lest by too sudden a silence, too complete an + acceptance of your will; the earnestness and endurance and + unabatedness ... the <i>truth</i>, in fact, of what had already been + professed, should get to be questioned—But I believe that you believe + me—And now that all is clear between us I will say, what you will + hear, without fearing for me or yourself, that I am utterly contented + ... ('grateful' I have done with ... it must go—) I accept what you + give me, what those words deliver to me, as—not all I asked for ... + as I said ... but as more than I ever hoped for,—<i>all</i>, in the best + sense, that I deserve. That phrase in my letter which you objected to, + and the other—may stand, too—I never attempted to declare, describe + my feeling for you—one word of course stood for it all ... but having + to put down some one <i>point</i>, so to speak, of it—you could not wonder + if I took any extreme one <i>first</i> ... never minding all the untold + portion that <i>led</i> up to it, made it possible and natural—it is true, + 'I could not dream of <i>that</i>'—that I was eager to get the horrible + notion away from never so flitting a visit to you, that you were thus + and thus to me <i>on condition</i> of my proving just the same to you—just + as if we had waited to acknowledge that the moon lighted us till we + ascertained within these two or three hundred years that the earth + happens to light the moon as well! But I felt that, and so said + it:—now you have declared what I should never have presumed to + hope—and I repeat to you that I, with all to be thankful for to God, + am most of all thankful for this the last of his providences ... which + is no doubt, the natural and inevitable feeling, could one always see + clearly. Your regard for me is <i>all</i> success—let the rest come, or + not come. In my heart's thankfulness I would ... I am sure I would + promise anything that would gratify you ... but it would <i>not</i> do + that, to agree, in words, to change my affections, put them elsewhere + &c. &c. That would be pure foolish talking, and quite foreign to the + practical results which you will attain in a better way from a higher + motive. I will cheerfully promise you, however, to be 'bound by no + words,' blind to no miracle; in sober earnest, it is not because I + renounced once for all oxen and the owning and having to do with them, + that I will obstinately turn away from any unicorn when such an + apparition blesses me ... but meantime I shall walk at peace on our + hills here nor go looking in all corners for the bright curved horn! + And as for you ... if I did not dare 'to dream of that'—, now it is + mine, my pride and joy prevent in no manner my taking the whole + consolation of it at once, <i>now</i>—I will be confident that, if I obey + you, I shall get no wrong for it—if, endeavouring to spare you + fruitless pain, I do not eternally revert to the subject; do indeed + 'quit' it just now, when no good can come of dwelling on it to you; + you will never say to yourself—so I said—'the "generous impulse" + <i>has</i> worn itself out ... time is doing his usual work—this was to be + expected' &c. &c. You will be the first to say to me 'such an obstacle + has ceased to exist ... or is now become one palpable to <i>you</i>, one + <i>you</i> may try and overcome'—and I shall be there, and ready—ten + years hence as now—if alive. +</p> +<p> + One final word on the other matters—the 'worldly matters'—I shall + own I alluded to them rather ostentatiously, because—because <i>that + would be</i> the <i>one</i> poor sacrifice I could make you—one I would + cheerfully make, but a sacrifice, and the only one: this careless + 'sweet habitude of living'—this absolute independence of mine, which, + if I had it not, my heart would starve and die for, I feel, and which + I have fought so many good battles to preserve—for that has + happened, too—this light rational life I lead, and know so well that + I lead; this I could give up for nothing less than—what you know—but + I <i>would</i> give it up, not for you merely, but for those whose + disappointment might re-act on you—and I should break no promise to + myself—the money getting would not be for the sake of <i>it</i>; 'the + labour not for that which is nought'—indeed the necessity of doing + this, if at all, <i>now</i>, was one of the reasons which make me go on to + that <i>last request of all</i>—at once; one must not be too old, they + say, to begin their ways. But, in spite of all the babble, I feel sure + that whenever I make up my mind to that, I can be rich enough and to + spare—because along with what you have thought <i>genius</i> in me, is + certainly talent, what the world recognizes as such; and I have tried + it in various ways, just to be sure that I <i>was</i> a little magnanimous + in never intending to use it. Thus, in more than one of the reviews + and newspapers that laughed my 'Paracelsus' to scorn ten years ago—in + the same column, often, of these reviews, would follow a most + laudatory notice of an Elementary French book, on a new plan, which I + '<i>did</i>' for my old French master, and he published—'<i>that</i> was really + an useful work'!—So that when the only obstacle is only that there is + so much <i>per annum</i> to be producible, you will tell me. After all it + would be unfair in me not to confess that this was always intended to + be <i>my</i> own single stipulation—'an objection' which I could see, + certainly,—but meant to treat myself to the little luxury of + removing. +</p> +<p> + So, now, dearest—let me once think of that, and of you as my own, my + dearest—this once—dearest, I have done with words for the present. I + will wait. God bless you and reward you—I kiss your hands <i>now</i>. This + is my comfort, that if you accept my feeling as all but <i>un</i>expressed + now, more and more will become spoken—or understood, that is—we both + live on—you will know better <i>what</i> it was, how much and manifold, + what one little word had to give out. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R.B. +</p> +<p> + On Thursday,—you remember? +</p> +<p> + This is Tuesday Night— +</p> +<p> + I called on Saturday at the Office in St. Mary Axe—all uncertainty + about the vessel's sailing again for Leghorn—it could not sail before + the middle of the month—and only then <i>if</i> &c. But if I would leave + my card &c. &c. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, September 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I write one word just to say that it is all over with Pisa; which was + a probable evil when I wrote last, and which I foresaw from the + beginning—being a prophetess, you know. I cannot tell you now how it + has all happened—<i>only do not blame me</i>, for I have kept my ground to + the last, and only yield when Mr. Kenyon and all the world see that + there is no standing. I am ashamed almost of having put so much + earnestness into a personal matter—and I spoke face to face and quite + firmly—so as to pass with my sisters for the 'bravest person in the + house' without contestation. +</p> +<p> + Sometimes it seems to me as if it <i>could not</i> end so—I mean, that the + responsibility of such a negative must be reconsidered ... and you see + how Mr. Kenyon writes to me. Still, as the matter lies, ... no Pisa! + And, as I said before, my prophetic instincts are not likely to fail, + such as they have been from the beginning. +</p> +<p> + If you wish to come, it must not be until Saturday at soonest. I have + a headache and am weary at heart with all this vexation—and besides + there is no haste now: and when you do come, <i>if you do</i>, I will trust + to you not to recur to one subject, which must lie where it fell ... + must! I had begun to write to you on Saturday, to say how I had + forgotten to give you your MSS. which were lying ready for you ... the + <i>Hood</i> poems. Would it not be desirable that you made haste to see + them through the press, and went abroad with your Roman friends at + once, to try to get rid of that uneasiness in the head? Do think of + it—and more than think. +</p> +<p> + For me, you are not to fancy me unwell. Only, not to be worn a little + with the last week's turmoil, were impossible—and Mr. Kenyon said to + me yesterday that he quite wondered how I could bear it at all, do + anything reasonable at all, and confine my misdoings to sending + letters addressed to him at Brighton, when he was at Dover! If + anything changes, you shall hear from— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon returns to Dover immediately. His kindness is impotent in + the case. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But one word before we leave the subject, and then to leave it + finally; but I cannot let you go on to fancy a mystery anywhere, in + obstacles or the rest. You deserve at least a full frankness; and in + my letter I meant to be fully frank. I even told you what was an + absurdity, so absurd that I should far rather not have told you at + all, only that I felt the need of telling you all: and no mystery is + involved in that, except as an 'idiosyncrasy' is a mystery. But the + 'insurmountable' difficulty is for you and everybody to see; and for + me to feel, who have been a very byword among the talkers, for a + confirmed invalid through months and years, and who, even if I were + going to Pisa and had the best prospects possible to me, should yet + remain liable to relapses and stand on precarious ground to the end of + my life. Now that is no mystery for the trying of 'faith'; but a plain + fact, which neither thinking nor speaking can make less a fact. But + <i>don't</i> let us speak of it. +</p> +<p> + I must speak, however, (before the silence) of what you said and + repeat in words for which I gratefully thank you—and which are <i>not</i> + 'ostentatious' though unnecessary words—for, if I were in a position + to accept sacrifices from you, I would not accept <i>such</i> a sacrifice + ... amounting to a sacrifice of duty and dignity as well as of ease + and satisfaction ... to an exchange of higher work for lower work ... + and of the special work you are called to, for that which is work for + anybody. I am not so ignorant of the right uses and destinies of what + you have and are. You will leave the Solicitor-Generalships to the + Fitzroy Kellys, and justify your own nature; and besides, do me the + little right, (<i>over</i> the <i>over</i>-right you are always doing me) of + believing that I would not bear or dare to do <i>you</i> so much wrong, if + I were in the position to do it. +</p> +<p> + And for all the rest I thank you—believe that I thank you ... and + that the feeling is not so weak as the word. That <i>you</i> should care at + all for <i>me</i> has been a matter of unaffected wonder to me from the + first hour until now—and I cannot help the pain I feel sometimes, in + thinking that it would have been better for you if you never had known + me. May God turn back the evil of me! Certainly I admit that I cannot + expect you ... just at this moment, ... to say more than you say, ... + and I shall try to be at ease in the consideration that you are as + accessible to the 'unicorn' now as you ever could be at any former + period of your life. And here I have done. I had done <i>living</i>, I + thought, when you came and sought me out! and why? and to what end? + <i>That</i>, I cannot help thinking now. Perhaps just that I may pray for + you—which were a sufficient end. If you come on Saturday I trust you + to leave this subject untouched,—as it must be indeed henceforth. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + No word more of Pisa—I shall not go, I think. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Words!—it was written I should hate and never use them to any + purpose. I will not say one word here—very well knowing neither word + nor deed avails—from me. +</p> +<p> + My letter will have reassured you on the point you seem undecided + about—whether I would speak &c. +</p> +<p> + I will come whenever you shall signify that I may ... whenever, acting + in my best interests, you feel that it will not hurt you (weary you in + any way) to see me—but I fear that on Saturday I must be + otherwhere—I enclose the letter from my old foe. Which could not but + melt me for all my moroseness and I can hardly go and return for my + sister in time. Will you tell me? +</p> +<p> + It is dark—but I want to save the post— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Of course you cannot do otherwise than go with your sister—or it will + be 'Every man <i>out</i> of his humour' perhaps—and you are not so very + 'savage' after all. +</p> +<p> + On Monday then, if you do not hear—to the contrary. +</p> +<p> + Papa has been walking to and fro in this room, looking thoughtfully + and talking leisurely—and every moment I have expected I confess, + some word (that did not come) about Pisa. Mr. Kenyon thinks it cannot + end so—and I do sometimes—and in the meantime I do confess to a + little 'savageness' also—at heart! All I asked him to say the other + day, was that he was not displeased with me—<i>and he wouldn't</i>; and + for me to walk across his displeasure spread on the threshold of the + door, and moreover take a sister and brother with me, and do such a + thing for the sake of going to Italy and securing a personal + advantage, were altogether impossible, obviously impossible! So poor + Papa is quite in disgrace with me just now—if he would but care for + <i>that</i>! +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. Amuse yourself well on Saturday. I could not see + you on Thursday any way, for Mr. Kenyon is here every day ... staying + in town just on account of this Pisa business, in his abundant + kindness.... On Monday then. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But you, too, will surely want, if you think me a rational creature, + <i>my</i> explanation—without which all that I have said and done would be + pure madness, I think. It <i>is</i> just 'what I see' that I <i>do</i> see,—or + rather it has proved, since I first visited you, that the reality was + infinitely worse than I know it to be ... for at, and after the + writing of <i>that first letter</i>, on my first visit, I believed—through + some silly or misapprehended talk, collected at second hand too—that + your complaint was of quite another nature—a spinal injury + irremediable in the nature of it. Had it been <i>so</i>—now speak for + <i>me</i>, for what you hope I am, and say how <i>that</i> should affect or + neutralize what you <i>were</i>, what I wished to associate with myself in + you? But <i>as you now are</i>:—then if I had married you seven years ago, + and this visitation came now first, I should be 'fulfilling a pious + duty,' I suppose, in enduring what could not be amended—a pattern to + good people in not running away ... for where were <i>now</i> the use and + the good and the profit and— +</p> +<p> + I desire in this life (with very little fluctuation for a man and too + weak a one) to live and just write out certain things which are in me, + and so save my soul. I would endeavour to do this if I were forced to + 'live among lions' as you once said—but I should best do this if I + lived quietly with myself and with you. That you cannot dance like + Cerito does not materially disarrange this plan—nor that I might + (beside the perpetual incentive and sustainment and consolation) get, + over and above the main reward, the incidental, particular and + unexpected happiness of being allowed when not working to rather + occupy myself with watching you, than with certain other pursuits I + might be otherwise addicted to—<i>this</i>, also, does not constitute an + obstacle, as I see obstacles. +</p> +<p> + But <i>you</i> see them—and I see <i>you</i>, and know my first duty and do it + resolutely if not cheerfully. +</p> +<p> + As for referring again, till leave by word or letter—you will see— +</p> +<p> + And very likely, the tone of this letter even will be + misunderstood—because I studiously cut out all vain words, protesting + &c.:—No—will it? +</p> +<p> + I said, unadvisedly, that Saturday was taken from me ... but it was + dark and I had not looked at the tickets: the hour of the performance + is later than I thought. If to-morrow does not suit you, as I infer, + let it be Saturday—at 3—and I will leave earlier, a little, and all + will be quite right here. One hint will apprise me. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you, dearest friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + Something else just heard, makes me reluctantly strike out + <i>Saturday</i>— +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday</i> then? +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, September 19, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + It is not 'misunderstanding' you to know you to be the most generous + and loyal of all in the world—you overwhelm me with your + generosity—only while you see from above and I from below, we cannot + see the same thing in the same light. Moreover, if we <i>did</i>, I should + be more beneath you in one sense, than I am. Do me the justice of + remembering this whenever you recur in thought to the subject which + ends here in the words of it. +</p> +<p> + I began to write last Saturday to thank you for all the delight I had + had in Shelley, though you beguiled me about the pencil-marks, which + are few. Besides the translations, some of the original poems were not + in my copy and were, so, quite new to me. 'Marianne's Dream' I had + been anxious about to no end—I only know it now.— +</p> +<p> + On Monday at the usual hour. As to coming twice into town on Saturday, + that would have been quite foolish if it had been possible. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Dearest friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I have nothing to say about Pisa, ... but a great deal (if I could say + it) about <i>you</i>, who do what is wrong by your own confession and are + ill because of it and make people uneasy—now <i>is</i> it right + altogether? is it right to do wrong?... for it comes to <i>that</i>:—and + is it kind to do so much wrong?... for it comes almost to <i>that</i> + besides. Ah—you should not indeed! I seem to see quite plainly that + you will be ill in a serious way, if you do not take care and take + exercise; and so you must consent to be teazed a little into taking + both. And if you will not take them here ... or not so effectually as + in other places; <i>why not go with your Italian friends</i>? Have you + thought of it at all? <i>I</i> have been thinking since yesterday that it + might be best for you to go at once, now that the probability has + turned quite against me. If I were going, I should ask you not to do + so immediately ... but you see how unlikely it is!—although I mean + still to speak my whole thoughts—I <i>will do that</i> ... even though + for the mere purpose of self-satisfaction. George came last night—but + there is an adverse star this morning, and neither of us has the + opportunity necessary. Only both he and I <i>will speak</i>—that is + certain. And Arabel had the kindness to say yesterday that if I liked + to go, she would go with me at whatever hazard—which is very + kind—but you know I could not—it would not be right of me. And + perhaps after all we may gain the point lawfully; and if not ... at + the worst ... the winter may be warm (it is better to fall into the + hands of God, as the Jew said) and I may lose less strength than + usual, ... having more than usual to lose ... and altogether it may + not be so bad an alternative. As to being the cause of any anger + against my sister, you would not advise me into such a position, I am + sure—it would be untenable for one moment. +</p> +<p> + But <i>you</i> ... in that case, ... would it not be good for your head if + you went at once? I praise myself for saying so to you—yet if it + really is good for you, I don't deserve the praising at all. And how + was it on Saturday—that question I did not ask yesterday—with Ben + Jonson and the amateurs? I thought of you at the time—I mean, on that + Saturday evening, nevertheless. +</p> +<p> + You shall hear when there is any more to say. May God bless you, + dearest friend! I am ever yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I walked to town, this morning, and back again—so that when I found + your note on my return, and knew what you had been enjoining me in the + way of exercise, I seemed as if I knew, too, why that energetic fit + had possessed me and why I succumbed to it so readily. You shall never + have to intimate twice to me that such an insignificant thing, even, + as the taking exercise should be done. Besides, I have many motives + now for wishing to continue well. But Italy <i>just now</i>—Oh, no! My + friends would go through Pisa, too. +</p> +<p> + On that subject I must not speak. And you have 'more strength to + lose,' and are so well, evidently so well; that is, so much better, so + sure to be still better—can it be that you will not go! +</p> +<p> + Here are your new notes on my verses. Where are my words for the + thanks? But you know what I feel, and shall feel—ever feel—for these + and for all. The notes would be beyond price to me if they came from + some dear Phemius of a teacher—but from you! +</p> +<p> + The Theatricals 'went off' with great éclat, and the performance was + really good, really clever or better. Forster's 'Kitely' was very + emphatic and earnest, and grew into great interest, quite up to the + poet's allotted tether, which is none of the longest. He pitched the + character's key note too gravely, I thought; <i>beginning</i> with + certainty, rather than mere suspicion, of evil. Dickens' 'Bobadil' + <i>was</i> capital—with perhaps a little too much of the consciousness of + entire cowardice ... which I don't so willingly attribute to the noble + would-be pacificator of Europe, besieger of Strigonium &c.—but the + end of it all was really pathetic, as it should be, for Bobadil is + only too clever for the company of fools he makes wonderment for: + having once the misfortune to relish their society, and to need but + too pressingly their 'tobacco-money,' what can he do but suit himself + to their capacities?—And D. Jerrold was very amusing and clever in + his 'Country Gull'—And Mr. Leech superb in the Town Master Mathew. + All were good, indeed, and were voted good, and called on, and cheered + off, and praised heartily behind their backs and before the curtain. + Stanfield's function had exercise solely in the touching up (very + effectively) sundry 'Scenes'—painted scenes—and the dresses, which + were perfect, had the advantage of Mr. Maclise's experience. And—all + is told! +</p> +<p> + And now; I shall hear, you promise me, if anything occurs—with what + feeling, I wait and hope, you know. If there is <i>no</i> best of reasons + against it, Saturday, you remember, is my day—This fine weather, too! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless my dearest friend—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> + <p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I have spoken again, and the result is that we are in precisely the + same position; only with bitterer feelings on one side. If I go or + stay they <i>must</i> be bitter: words have been said that I cannot easily + forget, nor remember without pain; and yet I really do almost smile in + the midst of it all, to think how I was treated this morning as an + undutiful daughter because I tried to put on my gloves ... for there + was no worse provocation. At least he complained of the undutifulness + and rebellion (!!!) of everyone in the house—and when I asked if he + meant that reproach for <i>me</i>, the answer was that he meant it for all + of us, one with another. And I could not get an answer. He would not + even grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what I + supposed to be good, to <i>him</i>. I told him that my prospects of health + seemed to me to depend on taking this step, but that through my + affection for him, I was ready to sacrifice those to his pleasure if + he exacted it—only it was necessary to my self-satisfaction in future + years, to understand definitely that the sacrifice <i>was</i> exacted by + him and <i>was</i> made to him, ... and not thrown away blindly and by a + misapprehension. And he would not answer <i>that</i>. I might do my own + way, he said—<i>he</i> would not speak—<i>he</i> would not say that he was not + displeased with me, nor the contrary:—I had better do what I + liked:—for his part, he washed his hands of me altogether. +</p> +<p> + And so I have been very wise—witness how my eyes are swelled with + annotations and reflections on all this! The best of it is that now + George himself admits I can do no more in the way of speaking, ... I + have no spell for charming the dragons, ... and allows me to be + passive and enjoins me to be tranquil, and not 'make up my mind' to + any dreadful exertion for the future. Moreover he advises me to go on + with the preparations for the voyage, and promises to state the case + himself at the last hour to the 'highest authority'; and judge finally + whether it be possible for me to go with the necessary companionship. + And it seems best to go to Malta on the 3rd of October—if at all ... + from steam-packet reasons ... without excluding Pisa ... remember ... + by any means. +</p> +<p> + Well!—and what do you think? Might it be desirable for me to give up + the whole? Tell me. I feel aggrieved of course and wounded—and + whether I go or stay that feeling must last—I cannot help it. But my + spirits sink altogether at the thought of leaving England <i>so</i>—and + then I doubt about Arabel and Stormie ... and it seems to me that I + <i>ought not</i> to mix them up in a business of this kind where the + advantage is merely personal to myself. On the other side, George + holds that if I give up and stay even, there will be displeasure just + the same, ... and that, when once gone, the irritation will exhaust + and smooth itself away—which however does not touch my chief + objection. Would it be better ... more <i>right</i> ... to give it up? + Think for me. Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be + thrown off—<i>that</i> is my conviction. But ... shall I give up <i>at + once</i>? Do think for me. +</p> +<p> + And I have thought that if you like to come on Friday instead of + Saturday ... as there is the uncertainty about next week, ... it would + divide the time more equally: but let it be as you like and according + to circumstances as you see them. Perhaps you have decided to go at + once with your friends—who knows? I wish I could know that you were + better to-day. May God bless you +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know + certain feelings <i>you</i> had been forced to endure. I suppose all of us + have the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most—and I + truly wish <i>you</i> may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, + quite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this + treatment, which I refuse to characterize—so blind is it <i>for</i> + blindness. I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and + a child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love's + caprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying + source. Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections—you + remember what—to myself, my own happiness,—did I once allude to, + much less argue against, or refuse to acknowledge those objections? + For I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest, + wariest, pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance + they entail—but now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded, + but ruined, cast away. And whoever is privileged to interfere should + do so in the possessor's own interest—all common sense + interferes—all rationality against absolute no-reason at all. And you + ask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all + passive obedience and implicit submission of will and intellect is by + far too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by God + to Man in this life of probation—for they <i>evade</i> probation + altogether, though foolish people think otherwise. Chop off your legs, + you will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will + find it is difficult to reason ill. 'It is hard to make these + sacrifices!'—not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty + of an Eternity to come; 'hard to effect them, then, and go through + with them'—<i>not</i> hard, when the leg is to be <i>cut off</i>—that it is + rather harder to keep it quiet on a stool, I know very well. The + partial indulgence, the proper exercise of one's faculties, there is + the difficulty and problem for solution, set by that Providence which + might have made the laws of Religion as indubitable as those of + vitality, and revealed the articles of belief as certainly as that + condition, for instance, by which we breathe so many times in a minute + to support life. But there is no reward proposed for the feat of + breathing, and a great one for that of believing—consequently there + must go a great deal more of voluntary effort to this latter than is + implied in the getting absolutely rid of it at once, by adopting the + direction of an infallible church, or private judgment of another—for + all our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief, + and there is but one law, however modified, for the greater and the + less. In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to + yourself; that is, to God in the end. Your own reason should examine + the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in + requisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your + conduct should have its utmost claims considered—your father's in the + first place; and that interest, not in the miserable limits of a few + days' pique or whim in which it would seem to express itself; but in + its whole extent ... the <i>hereafter</i> which all momentary passion + prevents him seeing ... indeed, the <i>present</i> on either side which + everyone else must see. And this examination made, with whatever + earnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion + you should act, in confidence that a duty has been performed ... + <i>difficult</i>, or how were it a duty? Will it <i>not</i> be infinitely harder + to act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who + can <i>not</i> do that? +</p> +<p> + I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will + fall—knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain + or point to, will be caught and understood, and presented in a better + light. The hard thing ... this is all I want to say ... is to act on + one's own best conviction—not to abjure it and accept another will, + and say '<i>there</i> is my plain duty'—easy it is, whether plain or no! +</p> +<p> + How 'all changes!' When I first knew you—you know what followed. I + supposed you to labour under an incurable complaint—and, of course, + to be completely dependent on your father for its commonest + alleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached + myself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any + proposition I might then have made—for though I have never been at + all frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with + it, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet + I could not but feel the consideration, of <i>what</i> failure would <i>now</i> + be, paralyse all effort even in fancy. When you told me lately that + 'you could never be poor'—all my solicitude was at an end—I had but + myself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe, + that I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could + cheerfully and confidently undertake the removing <i>that</i> obstacle. Now + again the circumstances shift—and you are in what I should wonder at + as the veriest slavery—and I who <i>could</i> free you from it, I am here + scarcely daring to write ... though I know you must feel for me and + forgive what forces itself from me ... what retires so mutely into my + heart at your least word ... what <i>shall not</i> be again written or + spoken, if you so will ... that I should be made happy beyond all hope + of expression by. Now while I <i>dream</i>, let me once dream! I would + marry you now and thus—I would come when you let me, and go when you + bade me—I would be no more than one of your brothers—'<i>no + more</i>'—that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Saturday, I should + get Saturday as well—two hours for one—when your head ached I + should be <i>here</i>. I deliberately choose the realization of that dream + (—of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any + other, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I + know—And it will continue but a dream. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless my dearest E.B.B.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + You understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose. +</p> +<p> + I am better—thank you—and will go out to-day. +</p> +<p> + You know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the + house by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I + had wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been + possible. +</p> +<p> + But it will be the same thing—for you know as well as if you saw my + answer, what it must be, what it cannot choose but be, on pain of + sinking me so infinitely below not merely your level but my own, that + the depth cannot bear a glance down. Yet, though I am not made of such + clay as to admit of my taking a base advantage of certain noble + extravagances, (and that I am not I thank God for your sake) I will + say, I must say, that your words in this letter have done me good and + made me happy, ... that I thank and bless you for them, ... and that + to receive such a proof of attachment from <i>you</i>, not only overpowers + every present evil, but seems to me a full and abundant amends for the + merely personal sufferings of my whole life. When I had read that + letter last night I <i>did</i> think so. I looked round and round for the + small bitternesses which for several days had been bitter to me, and I + could not find one of them. The tear-marks went away in the moisture + of new, happy tears. Why, how else could I have felt? how else do you + think I could? How would any woman have felt ... who could feel at all + ... hearing such words said (though 'in a dream' indeed) by such a + speaker? +</p> +<p> + And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than + I thought even <i>you</i> could have touched me—my heart was full when you + came here to-day. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you + harm—and I am yours too much, in my heart, ever to consent to do you + harm in that way. If I could consent to do it, not only should I be + less loyal ... but in one sense, less yours. I say this to you without + drawback and reserve, because it is all I am able to say, and perhaps + all I <i>shall</i> be able to say. However this may be, a promise goes to + you in it that none, except God and your will, shall interpose between + you and me, ... I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate + time from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you + whatever at that hour you shall choose ... whether friend or more than + friend ... a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with God and + with you—only in the meanwhile you are most absolutely free ... + 'unentangled' (as they call it) by the breadth of a thread—and if I + did not know that you considered yourself so, I would not see you any + more, let the effort cost me what it might. You may force me <i>feel</i>: + ... but you cannot force me to <i>think</i> contrary to my first thought + ... that it were better for you to forget me at once in one relation. + And if better for <i>you</i>, can it be bad for <i>me</i>? which flings me down + on the stone-pavement of the logicians. +</p> +<p> + And now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget afterwards that it + ever was asked? I have hesitated a great deal; but my face is down on + the stone-pavement—no—I will not ask to-day—It shall be for another + day—and may God bless you on this and on those that come after, my + dearest friend. +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Think for me, speak for me, my dearest, <i>my own</i>! You that are all + great-heartedness and generosity, do that one more generous thing? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you for</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + What can it be you ask of me!—'a boon'—once my answer to <i>that</i> had + been the plain one—but now ... when I have better experience of—No, + now I have <SPAN class="sc-ex">best</span> experience of how you understand my interests; that at + last we <i>both</i> know what is my true good—so ask, ask! <i>My own</i>, now! + For there it is!—oh, do not fear I am '<i>entangled</i>'—my crown is + loose on my head, not nailed there—my pearl lies in my hand—I may + return it to the sea, if I will! +</p> +<p> + What is it you ask of me, this first asking? +</p> +<br> +<h3> +<i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, September 29, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Then <i>first</i>, ... first, I ask you not to misunderstand. Because we do + not ... no, we do not ... agree (but disagree) as to 'what is your + true good' ... but disagree, and as widely as ever indeed. +</p> +<p> + The other asking shall come in its season ... some day before I go, if + I go. It only relates to a restitution—and you cannot guess it if you + try ... so don't try!—and perhaps you can't grant it if you try—and + I cannot guess. +</p> +<p> + Cabins and berths all taken in the Malta steamer for both third and + twentieth of October! see what dark lanterns the stars hold out, and + how I shall stay in England after all as I think! And thus we are + thrown back on the old Gibraltar scheme with its shifting of steamers + ... unless we take the dreary alternative of Madeira!—or Cadiz! Even + suppose Madeira, ... why it were for a few months alone—and there + would be no temptation to loiter as in Italy. +</p> +<p> + <i>Don't</i> think too hardly of poor Papa. You have his wrong side ... his + side of peculiar wrongness ... to you just now. When you have walked + round him you will have other thoughts of him. +</p> +<p> + Are you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and trying to be better? + May God bless you! Tuesday need not be the last day if you like to + take one more besides—for there is no going until the fourth or + seventh, ... and the seventh is the more probable of those two. But + now you have done with me until Tuesday. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 1, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I have read to the last line of your 'Rosicrucian'; and my scepticism + grew and grew through Hume's process of doubtful doubts, and at last + rose to the full stature of incredulity ... for I never could believe + Shelley capable of such a book (call it a book!), not even with a + flood of boarding-school idiocy dashed in by way of dilution. + Altogether it roused me to deny myself so far as to look at the date + of the book, and to get up and travel to the other end of the room to + confront it with other dates in the 'Letters from Abroad' ... (I, who + never think of a date except the 'A.D.,' and am inclined every now and + then to write <i>that</i> down as 1548 ...) well! and on comparing these + dates in these two volumes before my eyes, I find that your + Rosicrucian was 'printed for Stockdale' in <i>1822</i>, and that Shelley + <i>died in the July of the same year</i>!!—There, is a vindicating fact + for you! And unless the 'Rosicrucian' went into more editions than + one, and dates here from a later one, ... which is not ascertainable + from this fragment of a titlepage, ... the innocence of the great poet + stands proved—now doesn't it? For nobody will say that he published + such a book in the last year of his life, in the maturity of his + genius, and that Godwin's daughter helped him in it! That 'dripping + dew' from the skeleton is the only living word in the book!—which + really amused me notwithstanding, from the intense absurdity of the + whole composition ... descriptions ... sentiments ... and morals. +</p> +<p> + Judge yourself if I had not better say 'No' about the cloak! I would + take it if you wished such a kindness to me—and although you might + find it very useful to yourself ... or to your mother or sister ... + still if you <i>wished</i> me to take it I should like to have it, and the + mantle of the prophet might bring me down something of his spirit! but + do you remember ... do you consider ... how many talkers there are in + this house, and what would be talked—or that it is not worth while to + provoke it all? And Papa, knowing it, would not like it—and + altogether it is far better, believe me, that you should keep your own + cloak, and I, the thought of the kindness you meditated in respect to + it. I have heard nothing more—nothing. +</p> +<p> + I was asked the other day by a very young friend of mine ... the + daughter of an older friend who once followed you up-stairs in this + house ... Mr. Hunter, an Independent minister ... for 'Mr. Browning's + autograph.' She wants it for a collection ... for her album—and so, + will you write out a verse or two on one side of note paper ... not as + you write for the printers ... and let me keep my promise and send it + to her? I forgot to ask you before. Or one verse will do ... anything + will do ... and don't let me be bringing you into vexation. It need + not be of MS. rarity. +</p> +<p> + You are not better ... really ... I fear. And your mother's being ill + affects you more than you like to admit, I fear besides. Will you, + when you write, say how <i>both</i> are ... nothing extenuating, you know. + May God bless you, my dearest friend. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 2, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Well, let us hope against hope in the sad matter of the novel—yet, + yet,—it <i>is</i> by Shelley, if you will have the truth—as I happen to + <i>know</i>—proof <i>last</i> being that Leigh Hunt told me he unearthed it in + Shelley's own library at Marlow once, to the writer's horror and + shame—'He snatched it out of my hands'—said H. Yet I thrust it into + yours ... so much for the subtle fence of friends who reach your heart + by a side-thrust, as I told you on Tuesday, after the enemy has fallen + back breathless and baffled. As for the date, that Stockdale was a + notorious pirate and raker-up of rash publications ... and, do you + know, I suspect the <i>title-page</i> is all that boasts such novelty,—see + if the <i>book</i>, the inside leaves, be not older evidently!—a common + trick of the 'trade' to this day. The history of this and 'Justrozzi,' + as it is spelt,—the other novel,—may be read in Medwin's + 'Conversations'—and, as I have been told, in Lady Ch. Bury's + 'Reminiscences' or whatever she calls them ... the 'Guistrozzi' was + <i>certainly</i> 'written in concert with'—somebody or other ... for I + confess the whole story grows monstrous and even the froth of wine + strings itself in bright bubbles,—ah, but this was the scum of the + fermenting vat, do you see? I am happy to say I forget the novel + entirely, or almost—and only keep the exact impression which you have + gained ... through me! 'The fair cross of gold <i>he dashed on the + floor</i>'—(<i>that</i> is my pet-line ... because the 'chill dew' of a place + not commonly supposed to favour humidity is a plagiarism from Lewis's + 'Monk,' it now flashes on me! Yes, Lewis, too, puts the phrase into + intense italics.) And now, please read a chorus in the 'Prometheus + Unbound' or a scene from the 'Cenci'—and join company with Shelley + again! +</p> +<p> + —From 'chill dew' I come to the <i>cloak</i>—you are quite right—and I + give up that fancy. Will you, then, take one more precaution when + <i>all</i> proper safe-guards have been adopted; and, when <i>everything</i> is + sure, contrive some one sureness besides, against cold or wind or + sea-air; and say '<i>this</i>—for the cloak which is not here, and to help + the heart's wish which is,'—so I shall be there <i>palpably</i>. Will you + do this? Tell me you will, to-morrow—and tell me all good news. +</p> +<p> + My Mother suffers still.... I hope she is no worse—but a little + better—certainly better. I am better too, in my unimportant way. +</p> +<p> + Now I will write you the verses ... some easy ones out of a paper-full + meant to go between poem and poem in my next number, and break the + shock of collision. +</p> +<p> + Let me kiss your hand—dearest! My heart and life—all is yours, and + forever—God make you happy as I am through you—Bless you +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 6, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Tuesday is given up in full council. The thing is beyond doubting of, + as George says and as you thought yesterday. And then George has it in + his head to beguile the Duke of Palmella out of a smaller cabin, so + that I might sail from the Thames on the twentieth—and whether he + succeeds or not, I humbly confess that one of the chief advantages of + the new plan if not the very chief (as <i>I</i> see it) is just in the + <i>delay</i>. +</p> +<p> + Your spring-song is full of beauty as you know very well—and 'that's + the wise thrush,' so characteristic of you (and of the thrush too) + that I was sorely tempted to ask you to write it 'twice over,' ... and + not send the first copy to Mary Hunter notwithstanding my promise to + her. And now when you come to print these fragments, would it not be + well if you were to stoop to the vulgarism of prefixing some word of + introduction, as other people do, you know, ... a title ... a name? + You perplex your readers often by casting yourself on their + intelligence in these things—and although it is true that readers in + general are stupid and can't understand, it is still more true that + they are lazy and won't understand ... and they don't catch your point + of sight at first unless you think it worth while to push them by the + shoulders and force them into the right place. Now these fragments ... + you mean to print them with a line between ... and not one word at the + top of it ... now don't you! And then people will read +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Oh, to be in England +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">and say to themselves ... 'Why who is this? ... who's out of England?' + Which is an extreme case of course; but you will see what I mean ... + and often I have observed how some of the very most beautiful of your + lyrics have suffered just from your disdain of the usual tactics of + writers in this one respect. +</p> +<p> + And you are not better, still—you are worse instead of better ... are + you not? Tell me—And what can you mean about 'unimportance,' when you + were worse last week ... this expiring week ... than ever before, by + your own confession? And now?—And your mother? +</p> +<p> + Yes—I promise! And so, ... <i>Elijah</i> will be missed instead of his + mantle ... which will be a losing contract after all. But it shall be + as you say. May you be able to say that you are better! God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours. +</p> +<p> + Never think of the 'White Slave.' I had just taken it up. The trash of + it is prodigious—far beyond Mr. Smythe. Not that I can settle upon a + book just now, in all this wind, to judge of it fairly. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, October 6, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I should certainly think that the Duke of Palmella may be induced, and + with no great difficulty, to give up a cabin under the + circumstances—and <i>then</i> the plan becomes really objection-proof, so + far as mortal plans go. But now you must think all the boldlier about + whatever difficulties remain, just because they are so much the fewer. + It <i>is</i> cold already in the mornings and evenings—cold and (this + morning) foggy—I did not ask if you continue to go out from time to + time.... I am sure you <i>should</i>,—you would so prepare yourself + properly for the fatigue and change—yesterday it was very warm and + fine in the afternoon, nor is this noontime so bad, if the requisite + precautions are taken. And do make 'journeys across the room,' and out + of it, meanwhile, and <i>stand</i> when possible—get all the strength + ready, now that so much is to be spent. Oh, if I were by you! +</p> +<p> + Thank you, thank you—I will devise titles—I quite see what you say, + now you do say it. I am (this Monday morning, the prescribed day for + efforts and beginnings) looking over and correcting what you read—to + press they shall go, and then the plays can follow gently, and then + ... 'Oh to be in Pisa. Now that E.B.B. is there!'—And I <i>shall</i> be + there!... I am much better to-day; and my mother better—and to-morrow + I shall see you—So come good things together! +</p> +<p> + Dearest—till to-morrow and ever I am yours, wholly yours—May God + bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + You do not ask me that 'boon'—why is that?—Besides, I have my own + <i>real</i> boons to ask too, as you will inevitably find, and I shall + perhaps get heart by your example. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 7, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Ah but the good things do <i>not</i> come together—for just as your letter + comes I am driven to asking you to leave Tuesday for Wednesday. +</p> +<p> + On Tuesday Mr. Kenyon is to be here or not to be here, he + says—there's a doubt; and you would rather go to a clear day. So if + you do not hear from me again I shall expect you on <i>Wednesday</i> unless + I hear to the contrary from you:—and if anything happens to Wednesday + you shall hear. Mr. Kenyon is in town for only two days, or three. I + never could grumble against him, so good and kind as he is—but he may + not come after all to-morrow—so it is not grudging the obolus to + Belisarius, but the squandering of the last golden days at the bottom + of the purse. +</p> +<p> + Do I 'stand'—Do I walk? Yes—most uprightly. I 'walk upright every + day.' Do I go out? no, never. And I am not to be scolded for <i>that</i>, + because when you were looking at the sun to-day, I was marking the + east wind; and perhaps if I had breathed a breath of it ... farewell + Pisa. People who can walk don't always walk into the lion's den as a + consequence—do they? should they? Are you 'sure that they should?' I + write in great haste. So Wednesday then ... perhaps! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">And yours every day. +</p> +<p> + You understand. Wednesday—if nothing to the contrary. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">12—Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Well, dearest, at all events I get up with the assurance I shall see + you, and go on till the fatal 11-1/4 p.m. believing in the same, and + <i>then</i>, if after all there <i>does</i> come such a note as this with its + instructions, why, first, it <i>is</i> such a note and such a gain, and + next it makes a great day out of to-morrow that was to have been so + little of a day, that is all. Only, only, I am suspicious, now, of a + real loss to me in the end; for, <i>putting</i> off yesterday, I dared put + off (on your part) Friday to Saturday ... while <i>now</i> ... what shall + be said to that? +</p> +<p> + Dear Mr. Kenyon to be the smiling inconscious obstacle to any pleasure + of mine, if it were merely pleasure! +</p> +<p> + But I want to catch our next post—to-morrow, then, excepting what is + to be excepted! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you, my dearest—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B.</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, October 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon never came. My sisters met him in the street, and he had + been 'detained all day in the city and would certainly be here + to-morrow,' Wednesday! And so you see what has happened to Wednesday! + Moreover he may come besides on Thursday, ... I can answer for + nothing. Only if I do not write and if you find Thursday admissible, + will you come then? In the case of an obstacle, you shall hear. And it + is not (in the meantime) my fault—now is it? I have been quite enough + vexed about it, indeed. +</p> +<p> + Did the Monday work work harm to the head, I wonder? I do fear so that + you won't get through those papers with impunity—especially if the + plays are to come after ... though ever so 'gently.' And if you are to + suffer, it would be right to tongue-tie that silver Bell, and leave + the congregations to their selling of cabbages. Which is + unphilanthropic of me perhaps, ... <span title="ô philtate">ω φιλτατε</span>. +</p> +<p> + Be sure that I shall be 'bold' when the time for going comes—and both + bold and capable of the effort. I am desired to keep to the respirator + and the cabin for a day or two, while the cold can reach us; and + midway in the bay of Biscay some change of climate may be felt, they + say. There is no sort of danger for me; except that I shall <i>stay in + England</i>. And why is it that I feel to-night more than ever almost, as + if I should stay in England? Who can tell? <i>I</i> can tell one thing. + <i>If</i> I stay, it will not be from a failure in my resolution—<i>that + will</i> not be—<i>shall</i> not be. Yes—and Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the + other day that there was something of the tigress-nature very + distinctly cognisable under what he is pleased to call my + 'Ba-lambishness.' +</p> +<p> + Then, on Thursday!... unless something happens to <i>Thursday</i> ... and I + shall write in that case. And I trust to you (as always) to attend to + your own convenience—just as you may trust to me to remember my own + 'boon.' Ah—you are curious, I think! Which is scarcely wise of + you—because it <i>may</i>, you know, be the roc's egg after all. But no, + it <i>isn't</i>—I will say just so much. And besides I <i>did</i> say that it + was a 'restitution,' which limits the guesses if it does not put an + end to them. Unguessable, I choose it to be. +</p> +<p> + And now I feel as if I should <i>not</i> stay in England. Which is the + difference between one five minutes and another. May God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Dear Mr. Kenyon has been here again, and talking so (in his kindness + too) about the probabilities as to Pisa being against me ... about all + depending 'on one throw' and the 'dice being loaded' &c. ... that I + looked at him aghast as if he looked at the future through the folded + curtain and was licensed to speak oracles:—and ever since I have been + out of spirits ... oh, out of spirits—and must write myself back + again, or try. After all he may be wrong like another—and I should + tell you that he reasons altogether from the delay ... and that 'the + cabins will therefore be taken' and the 'circular bills' out of reach! + He <i>said</i> that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to + '<i>knout</i>' me every day—didn't he? +</p> +<p> + Well—George will probably speak before <i>he</i> leaves town, which will + be on Monday! and now that the hour approaches, I do feel as if the + house stood upon gunpowder, and as if I held Guy Fawkes's lantern in + my right hand. And no: I shall not go. The obstacles will not be those + of Mr. Kenyon's finding—and what their precise character will be I do + not see distinctly. Only that they will be sufficient, and thrown by + one hand just where the wheel should turn, ... <i>that</i>, I see—and you + will, in a few days. +</p> +<p> + Did you go to Moxon's and settle the printing matter? Tell me. And + what was the use of telling Mr. Kenyon that you were 'quite well' when + you know you are not? Will you say to me how you are, saying the + truth? and also how your mother is? +</p> +<p> + To show the significance of the omission of those evening or rather + night visits of Papa's—for they came sometimes at eleven, and + sometimes at twelve—I will tell you that he used to sit and talk in + them, and then <i>always</i> kneel and pray with me and for me—which I + used of course to feel as a proof of very kind and affectionate + sympathy on his part, and which has proportionably pained me in the + withdrawing. They were no ordinary visits, you observe, ... and he + could not well throw me further from him than by ceasing to pay + them—the thing is quite expressively significant. Not that I pretend + to complain, nor to have reason to complain. One should not be + grateful for kindness, only while it lasts: <i>that</i> would be a + short-breathed gratitude. I just tell you the fact, proving that it + cannot be accidental. +</p> +<p> + Did you ever, ever tire me? Indeed no—you never did. And do + understand that I am not to be tired 'in that way,' though as Mr. Boyd + said once of his daughter, one may be so 'far too effeminate.' No—if + I were put into a crowd I should be tired soon—or, apart from the + crowd, if you made me discourse orations De Coronâ ... concerning your + bag even ... I should be tired soon—though peradventure not very much + sooner than you who heard. But on the smooth ground of quiet + conversation (particularly when three people don't talk at once as my + brothers do ... to say the least!) I last for a long while:—not to + say that I have the pretension of being as good and inexhaustible a + listener to your own speaking as you could find in the world. So + please not to accuse me of being tired again. I can't be tired, and + won't be tired, you see. +</p> +<p> + And now, since I began to write this, there is a new evil and + anxiety—a worse anxiety than any—for one of my brothers is ill; had + been unwell for some days and we thought nothing of it, till to-day + Saturday: and the doctors call it a fever of the typhoid character ... + not typhus yet ... but we are very uneasy. You must not come on + Wednesday if an infectious fever be in the house—<i>that</i> must be out + of the question. May God bless you—I am quite heavy-hearted to-day, + but never less yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 13, 1845]. +</p> +<p> + These are bad news, dearest—all bad, except the enduring comfort of + your regard; the illness of your brother is worst ... that <i>would</i> + stay you, and is the first proper obstacle. I shall not attempt to + speak and prove my feelings,—you know what even Flush is to me + through you: I wait in anxiety for the next account. +</p> +<p> + If after all you do <i>not</i> go to Pisa; why, we must be cheerful and + wise, and take courage and hope. I cannot but see with your eyes and + from your place, you know,—and will let this all be one surprizing + and deplorable mistake of mere love and care ... but no such another + mistake ought to be suffered, if you escape the effects of this. I + will not cease to believe in a better event, till the very last, + however, and it is a deep satisfaction that all has been made plain + and straight up to this strange and sad interposition like a bar. You + have done <i>your</i> part, at least—with all that forethought and counsel + from friends and adequate judges of the case—so, if the bar <i>will</i> + not move, you will consider—will you not, dearest?—where one may + best encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and fine + weather. Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Kenyon suggested, or + elsewhere? Oh, these vain wishes ... the will here, and no means! +</p> +<p> + My life is bound up with yours—my own, first and last love. What + wonder if I feared to tire you—I who, knowing you as I do, admiring + what is so admirable (let me speak), loving what must needs be loved, + fain to learn what you only can teach; proud of so much, happy in so + much of you; I, who, for all this, neither come to admire, nor feel + proud, nor be taught,—but only, only to live with you and be by + you—that is love—for I <i>know</i> the rest, as I say. I know those + qualities are in you ... but at them I could get in so many ways.... I + have your books, here are my letters you give me; you would answer my + questions were <i>I</i> in Pisa—well, and it all would amount to nothing, + infinitely much as I know it is; to nothing if I could not sit by you + and see you.... I can stop at that, but not before. And it seems + strange to me how little ... less than little I have laid open of my + feelings, the nature of them to you—I smile to think how if all this + while I had been acting with the profoundest policy in intention, so + as to pledge myself to nothing I could not afterwards perform with the + most perfect ease and security, I should have done not much unlike + what I <i>have</i> done—to be sure, one word includes many or all ... but + I have not said ... what I will not even now say ... you will + <i>know</i>—in God's time to which I trust. +</p> +<p> + I will answer your note now—the questions. I did go—(it may amuse + you to write on)—to Moxon's. First let me tell you that when I called + there the Saturday before, his brother (in his absence) informed me, + replying to the question when it came naturally in turn with a round + of like enquiries, that your poems continued to sell 'singularly + well'—they would 'end in bringing a clear profit,' he said. I thought + to catch him, and asked if they <i>had</i> done so ... 'Oh; not at the + beginning ... it takes more time—he answered. On Thursday I saw + Moxon—he spoke rather encouragingly of my own prospects. I send him a + sheetful to-morrow, I believe, and we are 'out' on the 1st of next + month. Tennyson, by the way, has got his pension, £200 per annum—by + the other way, Moxon has bought the MSS. of Keats in the possession of + Taylor the publisher, and is going to bring out a complete edition; + which is pleasant to hear. +</p> +<p> + After settling with Moxon I went to Mrs. Carlyle's—who told me + characteristic quaintnesses of Carlyle's father and mother over the + tea she gave me. And all yesterday, you are to know, I was in a + permanent mortal fright—for my uncle came in the morning to intreat + me to go to Paris in <i>the evening</i> about some urgent business of + his,—a five-minutes matter with his brother there,—and the affair + being really urgent and material to his and the brother's interest, + and no substitute being to be thought of, I was forced to promise to + go—in case a letter, which would arrive in Town at noon, should not + prove satisfactory. So I calculated times, and found I could be at + Paris to-morrow, and back again, <i>certainly</i> by Wednesday—and so not + lose you on that day—oh, the fear I had!—but I was sure then and + now, that the 17th would not see you depart. But night came, and the + last Dover train left, and I drew breath freely—this morning I find + the letter was all right—so may it be with all worse apprehensions! + What you fear, precisely that, never happens, as Napoleon observed and + thereon grew bold. I had stipulated for an hour's notice, if go I + must—and that was to be wholly spent in writing to you—for in quiet + consternation my mother cared for my carpet bag. +</p> +<p> + And so, I shall hear from you to-morrow ... that is, you will write + <i>then</i>, telling me <i>all</i> about your brother. As for what you say, with + the kindest intentions, 'of fever-contagion' and keeping away on + Wednesday on <i>that</i> account, it is indeed 'out of the question,'—for + a first reason (which dispenses with any second) because I disbelieve + altogether in contagion from fevers, and especially from typhus + fevers—as do much better-informed men than myself—I speak quite + advisedly. If there should be only <i>that</i> reason, therefore, you will + not deprive me of the happiness of seeing you next Wednesday. +</p> +<p> + I am not well—have a cold, influenza or some unpleasant thing, but am + better than yesterday—My mother is much better, I think (she and my + sister are resolute non-contagionists, mind you that!) +</p> +<p> + God bless you and all you love! dearest, I am your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 14, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + It was the merest foolishness in me to write about fevers and the rest + as I did to-day, just as if it could do any good, all the wringing of + hands in the world. And there is no typhus <i>yet</i> ... and no danger of + any sort I hope and trust!—and how weak it is that habit of spreading + the cloud which is in you all around you, how weak and selfish ... and + unlike what <i>you</i> would do ... just as you are unlike Mr. Kenyon. And + you <i>are</i> unlike him—and you were right on Thursday when you said + so, and I was wrong in setting up a phrase on the other side ... only + what I said came by an instinct because you seemed to be giving him + all the sunshine to use and carry, which should not be after all. But + you are unlike him and must be ... seeing that the producers must + differ from the 'nati consumere fruges' in the intellectual as in the + material. You create and he enjoys, and the work makes you pale and + the pleasure makes him ruddy, and it is so of a necessity. So differs + the man of genius from the man of letters—and then dear Mr. Kenyon is + not even a man of letters in a full sense ... he is rather a Sybarite + of letters. Do you think he ever knew what mental labour is? I fancy + not. Not more than he has known what mental inspiration is! And not + more than he has known what the strife of the heart is ... with all + his tenderness and sensibility. He seems to me to <i>evade</i> pain, and + where he suffers at all to do so rather negatively than positively ... + if you understand what I mean by that ... rather by a want than by a + blow: the secret of all being that he has a certain latitudinarianism + (not indifferentism) in his life and affections, and has no capacity + for concentration and intensity. Partly by temperament and partly by + philosophy he contrives to keep the sunny side of the street—though + never inclined to forget the blind man at the corner. Ah, dear Mr. + Kenyon: he is magnanimous in toleration, and excellent in + sympathy—and he has the love of beauty and the reverence of + genius—but the faculty of <i>worship</i> he has not: he will not worship + aright either your heroes or your gods ... and while you do it he only + 'tolerates' the act in you. Once he said ... not to me ... but I heard + of it: 'What, if genius should be nothing but scrofula?' and he doubts + (I very much fear) whether the world is not governed by a throw of + those very same 'loaded dice,' and no otherwise. Yet he reveres genius + in the acting of it, and recognizes a God in creation—only it is but + 'so far,' and not farther. At least I think not—and I have a right to + think what I please of him, holding him as I do, in such true + affection. One of the kindest and most indulgent of human beings has + he been to me, and I am happy to be grateful to him. +</p> +<p> + <i>Sunday.</i>—The Duke of Palmella takes the whole vessel for the 20th + and therefore if I go it must be on the 17th. Therefore (besides) as + George must be on sessions to-morrow, he will settle the question with + Papa to-night. In the meantime our poor Occy is not much better, + though a little, and is ordered leeches on his head, and is confined + to his bed and attended by physician and surgeon. It is not decided + typhus, but they will not answer for its not being infectious; and + although he is quite at the top of the house, two stories above me, I + shall not like you to come indeed. And then there will be only room + for a farewell, and I who am a coward shrink from the saying of it. + No—not being able to see you to-morrow, (Mr. Kenyon is to be here + to-morrow, he says) let us agree to throw away Wednesday. I will + write, ... you will write perhaps—and above all things you will + promise to write by the 'Star' on Monday, that the captain may give me + your letter at Gibraltar. You promise? But I shall hear from you + before then, and oftener than once, and you will acquiesce about + Wednesday and grant at once that there can be no gain, no good, in + that miserable good-bye-ing. I do not want the pain of it to remember + you by—I shall remember very well without it, be sure. Still it shall + be as you like—as you shall chose—and if you are <i>disappointed</i> + about Wednesday (if it is not vain in me to talk of disappointments) + why do with Wednesday as you think best ... always understanding that + there's no risk of infection. +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday.</i>—All this I had written yesterday—and to-day it all is + worse than vain. Do not be angry with me—do not think it my + fault—but <i>I do not go to Italy</i> ... it has ended as I feared. What + passed between George and Papa there is no need of telling: only the + latter said that I 'might go if I pleased, but that going it would be + under his heaviest displeasure.' George, in great indignation, + pressed the question fully: but all was vain ... and I am left in this + position ... to go, if I please, with his displeasure over me, (which + after what you have said and after what Mr. Kenyon has said, and after + what my own conscience and deepest moral convictions say aloud, I + would unhesitatingly do at this hour!) and necessarily run the risk of + exposing my sister and brother to that same displeasure ... from which + risk I shrink and fall back and feel that to incur it, is impossible. + Dear Mr. Kenyon has been here and we have been talking—and he sees + what I see ... that I am justified in going myself, but not in + bringing others into difficulty. The very kindness and goodness with + which they desire me (both my sisters) 'not to think of them,' + naturally makes me think more of them. And so, tell me that I am not + wrong in taking up my chain again and acquiescing in this hard + necessity. The bitterest 'fact' of all is, that I had believed Papa to + have loved me more than he obviously does: but I never regret + knowledge ... I mean I never would <i>un</i>know anything ... even were it + the taste of the apples by the Dead sea—and this must be accepted + like the rest. In the meantime your letter comes—and if I could seem + to be very unhappy after reading it ... why it would be 'all pretence' + on my part, believe me. Can you care for me so much ... <i>you</i>? Then + <i>that</i> is light enough to account for all the shadows, and to make + them almost unregarded—the shadows of the life behind. Moreover dear + Occy is somewhat better—with a pulse only at ninety: and the doctors + declare that visitors may come to the house without any manner of + danger. Or I should not trust to your theories—no, indeed: it was not + that I expected you to be afraid, but that <i>I</i> was afraid—and if I am + not ashamed for <i>that</i>, why at least I am, for being <i>lâche</i> about + Wednesday, when you thought of hurrying back from Paris only for it! + You <i>could</i> think <i>that</i>!—You <i>can</i> care for me so much!—(I come to + it again!) When I hold some words to my eyes ... such as these in + this letter ... I can see nothing beyond them ... no evil, no want. + There <i>is</i> no evil and no want. Am I wrong in the decision about + Italy? Could I do otherwise? I had courage and to spare—but the + question, you see, did not regard myself wholly. For the rest, the + 'unforbidden country' lies within these four walls. Madeira was + proposed in vain—and any part of England would be as objectionable as + Italy, and not more advantageous to <i>me</i> than Wimpole Street. To take + courage and be cheerful, as you say, is left as an alternative—and + (the winter may be mild!) to fall into the hands of God rather than of + man: <i>and I shall be here for your November, remember</i>. +</p> +<p> + And now that you are not well, will you take care? and not come on + Wednesday unless you are better? and never again bring me <i>wet + flowers</i>, which probably did all the harm on Thursday? I was afraid + for you then, though I said nothing. May God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours I am—your own. +</p> +<p> + Ninety is not a high pulse ... for a fever of this kind—is it? and + the heat diminishes, and his spirits are better—and we are all much + easier ... have been both to-day and yesterday indeed. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning,<br> +[Post-mark, October 14, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Be sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen + for the best in the end. It is hard to bear now—but <i>you</i> have to + bear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing + you—<i>will</i> be well this one winter if you can, and then—since I am + <i>not</i> selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me,—I + desire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours + and with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, <SPAN class="sc-ex">you</span>—and + no hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment's care or fear; but + that one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised in any + least interest of yours—and before that, I am, and would ever be, + still silent. But now—what is to make you raise that hand? I will not + speak <i>now</i>; not seem to take advantage of your present feelings,—we + will be rational, and all-considering and weighing consequences, and + foreseeing them—but first I will prove ... if <i>that</i> has to be done, + why—but I begin speaking, and I should not, I know. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you, love!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + To-morrow I see you, without fail. I am rejoiced as you can imagine, + at your brother's improved state. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday,<br> +[Post-mark, October 15, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Will this note reach you at the 'fatal hour' ... or sooner? At any + rate it is forced to ask you to take Thursday for Wednesday, inasmuch + as Mr. Kenyon in his exceeding kindness has put off his journey just + for <i>me</i>, he says, because he saw me depressed about the decision, and + wished to come and see me again to-morrow and talk the spirits up, I + suppose. It is all so kind and good, that I cannot find a voice to + grumble about the obligation it brings of writing thus. And then, if + you suffer from cold and influenza, it will be better for you not to + come for another day, ... I think <i>that</i>, for comfort. Shall I hear + how you are to-night, I wonder? Dear Occy 'turned the corner,' the + physician said, yesterday evening, and, although a little fluctuating + to-day, remains on the whole considerably better. They were just in + time to keep the fever from turning to typhus. +</p> +<p> + How fast you print your book, for it is to be out on the first of + November! Why it comes out suddenly like the sun. Mr. Kenyon asked me + if I had seen anything you were going to print; and when I mentioned + the second part of the 'Duchess' and described how your perfect + rhymes, perfectly new, and all clashing together as by natural + attraction, had put me at once to shame and admiration, he began to + praise the first part of the same poem (which I had heard him do + before, by the way) and extolled it as one of your most striking + productions. +</p> +<p> + And so until Thursday! May God bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">and as the heart goes, ever yours. +</p> +<p> + I am glad for Tennyson, and glad for Keats. It is well to be able to + be glad about something—is is it not? about something out of + ourselves. And (<i>in</i> myself) I shall be most glad, if I have a letter + to-night. Shall I? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 15, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Thanks, my dearest, for the good news—of the fever's abatement—it is + good, too, that you write cheerfully, on the whole: what is it to <i>me</i> + that you write is of <i>me</i> ... I shall never say <i>that</i>! Mr. Kenyon is + all kindness, and one gets to take it as not so purely natural a + thing, the showing kindness to those it concerns, and belongs + to,—well! On Thursday, then,—to-morrow! Did you not get a note of + mine, a hurried note, which was meant for yesterday-afternoon's + delivery? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Forster came yesterday and was very profuse of graciosities: he + may have, or must have meant well, so we will go on again with the + friendship, as the snail repairs his battered shell. +</p> +<p> + My poems went duly to press on Monday night—there is not much + <i>correctable</i> in them,—you make, or you spoil, one of these things; + that is, <i>I</i> do. I have adopted all your emendations, and thrown in + lines and words, just a morning's business; but one does not write + plays so. You may like some of my smaller things, which stop + interstices, better than what you have seen; I shall wonder to know. I + am to receive a <i>proof</i> at the end of the week—will you help me and + over-look it. ('Yes'—she says ... my thanks I do not say!—) +</p> +<p> + While writing this, the <i>Times</i> catches my eye (it just came in) and + something from the <i>Lancet</i> is extracted, a long article against + quackery—and, as I say, this is the first and only sentence I + read—'There is scarcely a peer of the realm who is not the patron of + some quack pill or potion: and the literati too, are deeply tainted. + We have heard of barbarians who threw quacks and their medicines into + the sea: but here in England we have Browning, a prince of poets, + touching the pitch which defiles and making Paracelsus the hero of a + poem. Sir E.L. Bulwer writes puffs for the water doctors in a style + worthy of imitation by the scribe that does the poetical for Moses and + Son. Miss Martineau makes a finessing servant girl her + physician-general: and Richard Howitt and the Lady aforesaid stand + God-father and mother to the contemptible mesmeric vagaries of Spencer + Hall.'—Even the sweet incense to me fails of its effect if Paracelsus + is to figure on a level with Priessnitz, and 'Jane'! +</p> +<p> + What weather, now at last! Think for yourself and for me—could you + not go out on such days? +</p> +<p> + I am quite well now—cold, over and gone. Did I tell you my Uncle + arrived from Paris on Monday, as they hoped he would—so my travel + would have been to great purpose! +</p> +<p> + Bless my dearest—my own! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Your letter which should have reached me in the morning of yesterday, + I did not receive until nearly midnight—partly through the + eccentricity of our new postman whose good pleasure it is to make use + of the letter-box without knocking; and partly from the confusion in + the house, of illness in different ways ... the very servants being + ill, ... one of them breaking a blood-vessel—for there is no new case + of fever; ... and for dear Occy, he grows better slowly day by day. + And just so late last night, five letters were found in the + letter-box, and mine ... yours ... among them—which accounts for my + beginning to answer it only now. +</p> +<p> + What am I to say but this ... that I know what you are ... and that I + know also what you are to <i>me</i>,—and that I should accept that + knowledge as more than sufficient recompense for worse vexations than + these late ones. Therefore let no more be said of them: and no more + <i>need</i> be said, even if they were not likely to prove their own end + good, as I believe with you. You may be quite sure that I shall be + well this winter, if in any way it should be possible, and that I + <i>will not</i> be beaten down, if the will can do anything. I admire how, + if all had happened so but a year ago, (yet it could not have happened + quite <i>so</i>!), I should certainly have been beaten down—and how it is + different now, ... and how it is only gratitude to you, to <i>say</i> that + it is different now. My cage is not worse but better since you brought + the green groundsel to it—and to dash oneself against the wires of it + will not open the door. We shall see ... and God will oversee. And in + the meantime you will not talk of extravagances; and then nobody need + hold up the hand—because, as I said and say, I am yours, your + own—only not to <i>hurt you</i>. So now let us talk of the first of + November and of the poems which are to come out then, and of the poems + which are to come after then—and of the new avatar of 'Sordello,' for + instance, which you taught me to look for. And let us both be busy and + cheerful—and you will come and see me throughout the winter, ... if + you do not decide rather on going abroad, which may be better ... + better for your health's sake?—in which case I shall have your + letters. +</p> +<p> + And here is another ... just arrived. How I thank you. Think of the + <i>Times</i>! Still it was very well of them to recognise your + principality. Oh yes—do let me see the proof—I understand too about + the 'making and spoiling.' +</p> +<p> + Almost you forced me to smile by thinking it worth while to say that + you are '<i>not selfish</i>.' Did Sir Percival say so to Sir Gawaine across + the Round Table, in those times of chivalry to which you belong by the + soul? Certainly you are not selfish! May God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + The fever may last, they say, for a week longer, or even a + fortnight—but it <i>decreases</i>. Yet he is hot still, and very weak. +</p> +<p> + To to-morrow! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Do tell me what you mean precisely by your 'Bells and Pomegranates' + title. I have always understood it to refer to the Hebraic priestly + garment—but Mr. Kenyon held against me the other day that your + reference was different, though he had not the remotest idea how. And + yesterday I forgot to ask, for not the first time. Tell me too why you + should not in the new number satisfy, by a note somewhere, the Davuses + of the world who are in the majority ('Davi sumus, non Oedipi') with a + solution of this one Sphinx riddle. Is there a reason against it? +</p> +<p> + Occy continues to make progress—with a pulse at only eighty-four this + morning. Are you learned in the pulse that I should talk as if you + were? <i>I</i>, who have had my lessons? He takes scarcely anything yet but + water, and his head is very hot still—but the progress is quite + sure, though it may be a lingering case. +</p> +<p> + Your beautiful flowers!—none the less beautiful for waiting for water + yesterday. As fresh as ever, they were; and while I was putting them + into the water, I thought that your visit went on all the time. Other + thoughts too I had, which made me look down blindly, quite blindly, on + the little blue flowers, ... while I thought what I could not have + said an hour before without breaking into tears which would have run + faster then. To say now that I never can forget; that I feel myself + bound to you as one human being cannot be more bound to another;—and + that you are more to me at this moment than all the rest of the world; + is only to say in new words that it would be a wrong against <i>myself</i>, + to seem to risk your happiness and abuse your generosity. For <i>me</i> ... + though you threw out words yesterday about the testimony of a 'third + person,' ... it would be monstrous to assume it to be necessary to + vindicate my trust of you—<i>I trust you implicitly</i>—and am not too + proud to owe all things to you. But now let us wait and see what this + winter does or undoes—while God does His part for good, as we know. I + will never fail to you from any human influence whatever—<i>that</i> I + have promised—but you must let it be different from the other sort of + promise which it would be a wrong to make. May God bless you—you, + whose fault it is, to be too generous. You <i>are</i> not like other men, + as I could see from the beginning—no. +</p> +<p> + Shall I have the proof to-night, I ask myself. +</p> +<p> + And if you like to come on Monday rather than Tuesday, I do not see + why there should be a 'no' to that. Judge from your own convenience. + Only we must be wise in the general practice, and abstain from too + frequent meetings, for fear of difficulties. I am Cassandra you know, + and smell the slaughter in the bath-room. It would make no difference + in fact; but in comfort, much. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I must not go on tearing these poor sheets one after the other,—the + proper phrases <i>will not</i> come,—so let them stay, while you care for + my best interests in their best, only way, and say for <i>me</i> what I + would say if I could—dearest,—say it, as I feel it! +</p> +<p> + I am thankful to hear of the continued improvement of your brother. So + may it continue with him! Pulses I know very little about—I go by + your own impressions which are evidently favourable. +</p> +<p> + I will make a note as you suggest—or, perhaps, keep it for the + closing number (the next), when it will come fitly in with two or + three parting words I shall have to say. The Rabbis make Bells and + Pomegranates symbolical of Pleasure and Profit, the gay and the grave, + the Poetry and the Prose, Singing and Sermonizing—such a mixture of + effects as in the original hour (that is quarter of an hour) of + confidence and creation. I meant the whole should prove at last. Well, + it <i>has</i> succeeded beyond my most adventurous wishes in one + respect—'Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, if—' if there was any + sweetness in the tongue or flavour in the seeds to <i>her</i>. But I shall + do quite other and better things, or shame on me! The proof has not + yet come.... I should go, I suppose, and enquire this afternoon—and + probably I will. +</p> +<p> + I weigh all the words in your permission to come on Monday ... do not + think <i>I</i> have not seen <i>that</i> contingency from the first! Let it be + Tuesday—no sooner! Meanwhile you are never away—never from your + place here. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless my dearest.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] +</p> +<p> + This arrived on Saturday night—I just correct it in time for this our + first post—will it do, the new matter? I can take it to-morrow—when + I am to see you—if you are able to glance through it by then. +</p> +<p> + The 'Inscription,' how does that read? +</p> +<p> + There is strange temptation, by the way, in the space they please to + leave for the presumable 'motto'—'they but remind me of mine own + conception' ... but one must give no clue, of a silk's breadth, to the + '<i>Bower</i>,' <i>yet</i>, One day! +</p> +<p> + —Which God send you, dearest, and your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Even at the risk of teazing you a little I must say a few words, that + there may be no misunderstanding between us—and this, before I sleep + to-night. To-day and before to-day you surprised me by your manner of + receiving my remark about your visits, for I believed I had + sufficiently made clear to you long ago how certain questions were + ordered in this house and how no exception was to be expected for my + sake or even for yours. Surely I told you this quite plainly long ago. + I only meant to say in my last letter, in the same track ... (fearing + in the case of your wishing to come oftener that you might think it + unkind in me not to seem to wish the same) ... that if you came too + often and it was <i>observed</i>, difficulties and vexations would follow + as a matter of course, and it would be wise therefore to run no risk. + That was the head and front of what I meant to say. The weekly one + visit is a thing established and may go on as long as you please—and + there is no objection to your coming twice a week <i>now</i> and <i>then</i> ... + if now and then merely ... if there is no habit ... do you understand? + I may be prudent in an extreme perhaps—and certainly everybody in the + house is not equally prudent!—but I did shrink from running any risk + with that calm and comfort of the winter as it seemed to come on. And + was it more than I said about the cloak? was there any newness in it? + anything to startle you? Still I do perfectly see that whether new or + old, what it <i>involves</i> may well be unpleasant to you—and that + (however old) it may be apt to recur to your mind with a new + increasing unpleasantness. We have both been carried too far perhaps, + by late events and impulses—but it is never too late to come back to + a right place, and I for my part come back to mine, and entreat you my + dearest friend, first, <i>not to answer this</i>, and next, to weigh and + consider thoroughly 'that particular contingency' which (I tell you + plainly, I who know) the tongue of men and of angels would not modify + so as to render less full of vexations to you. Let Pisa prove the + excellent hardness of some marbles! Judge. From motives of + self-respect, you may well walk an opposite way ... <i>you</i>.... When I + told you once ... or twice ... that 'no human influence should' &c. + &c., ... I spoke for myself, quite over-looking you—and now that I + turn and see you, I am surprised that I did not see you before ... + <i>there</i>. I ask you therefore to consider 'that contingency' well—not + forgetting the other obvious evils, which the late decision about Pisa + has aggravated beyond calculation ... for as the smoke rolls off we + see the harm done by the fire. And so, and now ... is it not advisable + for you to go abroad at once ... as you always intended, you know ... + now that your book is through the press? What if you go next week? I + leave it to you. In any case <i>I entreat you not to answer + this</i>—neither let your thoughts be too hard on me for what you may + call perhaps vacillation—only that I stand excused (I do not say + justified) before my own moral sense. May God bless you. If you go, I + shall wait to see you till your return, and have letters in the + meantime. I write all this as fast as I can to have it over. What I + ask of you is, to consider alone and decide advisedly ... for both our + sakes. If it should be your choice not to make an end now, ... why I + shall understand <i>that</i> by your not going ... or you may say '<i>no</i>' in + a word ... for I require no '<i>protestations</i>' indeed—and <i>you</i> may + trust to <i>me</i> ... it shall be as you choose. <i>You will consider my + happiness most by considering your own</i> ... and that is my last word. +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday morning.</i>—I did not say half I thought about the poems + yesterday—and their various power and beauty will be striking and + surprising to your most accustomed readers. 'St. Praxed'—'Pictor + Ignotus'—'The Ride'—'The Duchess'!—Of the new poems I like + supremely the first and last ... that 'Lost Leader' which strikes so + broadly and deep ... which nobody can ever forget—and which is worth + all the journalizing and pamphleteering in the world!—and then, the + last 'Thought' which is quite to be grudged to that place of fragments + ... those grand sea-sights in the long lines. Should not these + fragments be severed otherwise than by numbers? The last stanza but + one of the 'Lost Mistress' seemed obscure to me. Is it so really? The + end you have put to 'England in Italy' gives unity to the whole ... + just what the poem wanted. Also you have given some nobler lines to + the middle than met me there before. 'The Duchess' appears to me more + than ever a new-minted golden coin—the rhythm of it answering to your + own description, 'Speech half asleep, or song half awake?' You have + right of trove to these novel effects of rhythm. Now if people do not + cry out about these poems, what are we to think of the world? +</p> +<p> + May God bless you always—send me the next proof <i>in any case</i>. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 23, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But I <i>must</i> answer you, and be forgiven, too, dearest. I was (to + begin at the beginning) surely not '<i>startled</i>' ... only properly + aware of the deep blessing I have been enjoying this while, and not + disposed to take its continuance as pure matter of course, and so + treat with indifference the first shadow of a threatening intimation + from without, the first hint of a possible abstraction from the + quarter to which so many hopes and fears of mine have gone of late. In + this case, knowing you, I was sure that if any imaginable form of + displeasure could touch you without reaching me, I should not hear of + it too soon—so I spoke—so <i>you</i> have spoken—and so now you get + 'excused'? No—wondered at, with all my faculty of wonder for the + strange exalting way you will persist to think of me; now, once for + all, I <i>will</i> not pass for what I make no least pretence to. I quite + understand the grace of your imaginary self-denial, and fidelity to a + given word, and noble constancy; but it all happens to be none of + mine, none in the least. I love you because I <i>love</i> you; I see you + 'once a week' because I cannot see you all day long; I think of you + all day long, because I most certainly could not think of you once an + hour less, if I tried, or went to Pisa, or 'abroad' (in every sense) + in order to 'be happy' ... a kind of adventure which you seem to + suppose you have in some way interfered with. Do, for this once, + think, and never after, on the impossibility of your ever (you know I + must talk your own language, so I shall say—) hindering any scheme of + mine, stopping any supposable advancement of mine. Do you really think + that before I found you, I was going about the world seeking whom I + might devour, that is, be devoured by, in the shape of a wife ... do + you suppose I ever dreamed of marrying? What would it mean for me, + with my life I am hardened in—considering the rational chances; how + the land is used to furnish its contingent of Shakespeare's women: or + by 'success,' 'happiness' &c. &c. you never never can be seeing for a + moment with the world's eyes and meaning 'getting rich' and all that? + Yet, put that away, and what do you meet at every turn, if you are + hunting about in the dusk to catch my good, but yourself? +</p> +<p> + <i>I</i> know who has got it, caught it, and means to keep it on his + heart—the person most concerned—<i>I</i>, dearest, who cannot play the + disinterested part of bidding <i>you</i> forget your 'protestation' ... + what should I have to hold by, come what will, through years, through + this life, if God shall so determine, if I were not sure, <i>sure</i> that + the first moment when you can suffer me with you 'in that relation,' + you will remember and act accordingly. I will, as you know, conform my + life to <i>any</i> imaginable rule which shall render it possible for your + life to move with it and possess it, all the little it is worth. +</p> +<p> + For your friends ... whatever can be 'got over,' whatever opposition + may be rational, will be easily removed, I suppose. You know when I + spoke lately about the 'selfishness' I dared believe I was free from, + I hardly meant the low faults of ... I shall say, a different + organization to mine—which has vices in plenty, but not those. + Besides half a dozen scratches with a pen make one stand up an + apparent angel of light, from the lawyer's parchment; and Doctors' + Commons is one bland smile of applause. The selfishness I deprecate is + one which a good many women, and men too, call 'real passion'—under + the influence of which, I ought to say 'be mine, what ever happens to + <i>you</i>'—but I know better, and you know best—and you know me, for all + this letter, which is no doubt in me, I feel, but dear entire goodness + and affection, of which God knows whether I am proud or not—and now + you will let me be, will not you. Let me have my way, live my life, + love my love. +</p> +<p> + When I am, praying God to bless her ever, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + '<i>And be forgiven</i>' ... yes! and be thanked besides—if I knew how to + thank you worthily and as I feel ... only that I do not know it, and + cannot say it. And it was not indeed 'doubt' of you—oh no—that made + me write as I did write; it was rather because I felt you to be surely + noblest, ... and therefore fitly dearest, ... that it seemed to me + detestable and intolerable to leave you on this road where the mud + must splash up against you, and never cry 'gare.' Yet I was quite + enough unhappy yesterday, and before yesterday ... I will confess + to-day, ... to be too gratefully glad to 'let you be' ... to 'let you + have your way'—you who overcome always! Always, but where you tell me + not to think of you so and so!—as if I could help thinking of you + <i>so</i>, and as if I should not take the liberty of persisting to think + of you just so. 'Let me be'—Let me have my way.' I am unworthy of you + perhaps in everything except one thing—and <i>that</i>, you cannot guess. + May God bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever I am yours. +</p> +<p> + The proof does not come! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, October 25, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I wrote briefly yesterday not to make my letter longer by keeping it; + and a few last words which belong to it by right, must follow after it + ... must—for I want to say that you need not indeed talk to me about + squares being not round, and of <i>you</i> being not 'selfish'! You know it + is foolish to talk such superfluities, and not a compliment. +</p> +<p> + I won't say to my knowledge of you and faith in you ... but to my + understanding generally. Why should you say to me at all ... much + less for this third or fourth time ... 'I am not selfish?' to <i>me</i> who + never ... when I have been deepest asleep and dreaming, ... never + dreamed of attributing to you any form of such a fault? Promise not to + say so again—now promise. Think how it must sound to my ears, when + really and truly I have sometimes felt jealous of myself ... of my own + infirmities, ... and thought that you cared for me only because your + chivalry touched them with a silver sound—and that, without them, you + would pass by on the other side:—why twenty times I have thought + <i>that</i> and been vexed—ungrateful vexation! In exchange for which too + frank confession, I will ask for another silent promise ... a silent + promise—no, but first I will say another thing. +</p> +<p> + First I will say that you are not to fancy any the least danger of my + falling under displeasure through your visits—there is no sort of + risk of it <i>for the present</i>—and if I ran the risk of making you + uncomfortable about <i>that</i>, I did foolishly, and what I meant to do + was different. I wish you also to understand that <i>even if you came + here every day</i>, my brothers and sisters would simply care to know if + I liked it, and then be glad if I was glad:—the caution referred to + one person alone. In relation to <i>whom</i>, however, there will be no + 'getting over'—you might as well think to sweep off a third of the + stars of Heaven with the motion of your eyelashes—this, for matter of + fact and certainty—and this, as I said before, the keeping of a + general rule and from no disrespect towards individuals: a great + peculiarity <i>in the individual</i> of course. But ... though I have been + a submissive daughter, and this from no effort, but for love's sake + ... because I loved him tenderly (and love him), ... and hoped that he + loved me back again even if the proofs came untenderly sometimes—yet + I have reserved for myself <i>always</i> that right over my own affections + which is the most strictly personal of all things, and which involves + principles and consequences of infinite importance and scope—even + though I <i>never</i> thought (except perhaps when the door of life was + just about to open ... before it opened) never thought it probable or + possible that I should have occasion for the exercise; from without + and from within at once. I have too much need to look up. For friends, + I can look any way ... round, and <i>down</i> even—the merest thread of a + sympathy will draw me sometimes—or even the least look of kind eyes + over a dyspathy—'Cela se peut facilement.' But for another + relation—it was all different—and rightly so—and so very + different—'Cela ne se peut nullement'—as in Malherbe. +</p> +<p> + And now we must agree to 'let all this be,', and set ourselves to get + as much good and enjoyment from the coming winter (better spent at + Pisa!) as we can—and I begin my joy by being glad that you are not + going since I am not going, and by being proud of these new green + leaves in your bay which came out with the new number. And then will + come the tragedies—and then, ... what beside? We shall have a happy + winter after all ... <i>I</i> shall at least; and if Pisa had been better, + London might be worse: and for <i>me</i> to grow pretentious and fastidious + and critical about various sorts of <i>purple</i> ... I, who have been used + to the <i>brun foncé</i> of Mme. de Sévigné, (<i>foncé</i> and <i>enfoncé</i> + ...)—would be too absurd. But why does not the proof come all this + time? I have kept this letter to go back with it. +</p> +<p> + I had a proposition from the New York booksellers about six weeks ago + (the booksellers who printed the poems) to let them re-print those + prose papers of mine in the <i>Athenæum</i>, with additional matter on + American literature, in a volume by itself—to be published at the + same time both in America and England by Wiley and Putnam in Waterloo + Place, and meaning to offer liberal terms, they said. Now what shall I + do? Those papers are not fit for separate publication, and I am not + inclined to the responsibility of them; and in any case, they must + give as much trouble as if they were re-written (trouble and not + poetry!), before I could consent to such a thing. Well!—and if I do + not ... these people are just as likely to print them without leave + ... and so without correction. What do you advise? What shall I do? + All this time they think me sublimely indifferent, they who pressed + for an answer by return of packet—and now it is past six ... eight + weeks; and I must say something. +</p> +<p> + Am I not 'femme qui parle' to-day? And let me talk on ever so, the + proof won't come. May God bless you—and me as I am +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + And the silent promise I would have you make is this—that if ever you + should leave me, it shall be (though you are not 'selfish') for your + sake—and not for mine: for your good, and not for mine. I ask it—not + because I am disinterested; but because one class of motives would be + valid, and the other void—simply for that reason. +</p> +<p> + Then the <i>femme qui parle</i> (looking back over the parlance) did not + mean to say on the first page of this letter that she was ever for a + moment <i>vexed in her pride</i> that she should owe anything to her + adversities. It was only because adversities are accidents and not + essentials. If it had been prosperities, it would have been the same + thing—no, not the same thing!—but far worse. +</p> +<p> + Occy is up to-day and doing well. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, October 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How does one make 'silent promises' ... or, rather, how does the maker + of them communicate that fact to whomsoever it may concern? I know, + there have been many, very many unutterable vows and promises + made,—that is, <i>thought</i> down upon—the white slip at the top of my + notes,—such as of this note; and not trusted to the pen, that always + comes in for the shame,—but given up, and replaced by the poor forms + to which a pen is equal; and a glad minute I should account <i>that</i>, in + which you collected and accepted <i>those</i> 'promises'—because they + would not be all so unworthy of me—much less you! I would receive, in + virtue of <i>them</i>, the ascription of whatever worthiness is supposed to + lie in deep, truest love, and gratitude— +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Read my silent answer there too! +</p> +<p> + All your letter is one comfort: we will be happy this winter, and + after, do not fear. I am most happy, to begin, that your brother is so + much better: he must be weak and susceptible of cold, remember. +</p> +<p> + It was on my lip, I do think, <i>last</i> visit, or the last but one, to + beg you to detach those papers from the <i>Athenæum's gâchis</i>. Certainly + this opportunity is <i>most</i> favourable, for every reason: you cannot + hesitate, surely. At present those papers are lost—<i>lost</i> for + practical purposes. Do pray reply without fail to the proposers; no, + no harm of these really fine fellows, who <i>could</i> do harm (by printing + incorrect copies, and perhaps eking out the column by suppositious + matter ... ex-gr. they strengthened and lengthened a book of Dickens', + in Paris, by adding quant. suff. of Thackeray's 'Yellowplush Papers' + ... as I discovered by a Parisian somebody praising the latter to me + as Dickens' best work!)—and who <i>do</i> really a good straightforward + un-American thing. You will encourage 'the day of small + things'—though this is not small, nor likely to have small results. I + shall be impatient to hear that you have decided. I like the progress + of these Americans in taste, their amazing leaps, like grasshoppers up + to the sun—from ... what is the '<i>from</i>,' what depth, do you + remember, say, ten or twelve years back?—<i>to</i>—Carlyle, and Tennyson, + and you! So children leave off Jack of Cornwall and go on just to + Homer. +</p> +<p> + I can't conceive why my proof does not come—I must go to-morrow and + see. In the other, I have corrected all the points you noted, to their + evident improvement. Yesterday I took out 'Luria' and read it + through—the skeleton—I shall hope to finish it soon now. It is for a + purely imaginary stage,—very simple and straightforward. Would you + ... no, Act by Act, as I was about to propose that you should read it; + that process would affect the oneness I most wish to preserve. +</p> +<p> + On Tuesday—at last, I am with you. Till when be with me ever, + dearest—God bless you ever— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday 9 a.m.<br> +[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] +</p> +<p> + I got this on coming home last night—have just run through it this + morning, and send it that time may not be lost. Faults, faults; but I + don't know how I have got tired of this. The Tragedies will be better, + at least the second— +</p> +<p> + At 3 this day! Bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p> + I write in haste, not to lose time about the proof. You will see on + the papers here my doubtfulnesses such as they are—but silence + swallows up the admirations ... and there is no time. 'Theocrite' + overtakes that wish of mine which ran on so fast—and the 'Duchess' + grows and grows the more I look—and 'Saul' is noble and must have his + full royalty some day. Would it not be well, by the way, to print it + in the meanwhile as a fragment confessed ... sowing asterisks at the + end. Because as a poem of yours it stands there and wants unity, and + people can't be expected to understand the difference between + incompleteness and defect, unless you make a sign. For the new + poems—they are full of beauty. You throw largesses out on all sides + without counting the coins: how beautiful that 'Night and Morning' ... + and the 'Earth's Immortalities' ... and the 'Song' too. And for your + 'Glove,' all women should be grateful,—and Ronsard, honoured, in + this fresh shower of music on his old grave ... though the chivalry of + the interpretation, as well as much beside, is so plainly yours, ... + could only be yours perhaps. And even <i>you</i> are forced to let in a + third person ... close to the doorway ... before you can do any good. + What a noble lion you give us too, with the 'flash on his forehead,' + and 'leagues in the desert already' as we look on him! And then, with + what a 'curious felicity' you turn the subject 'glove' to another use + and strike De Lorge's blow back on him with it, in the last paragraph + of your story! And the versification! And the lady's speech—(to + return!) so calm, and proud—yet a little bitter! +</p> +<p> + Am I not to thank you for all the pleasure and pride in these poems? + while you stand by and try to talk them down, perhaps. +</p> +<p> + Tell me how your mother is—tell me how you are ... you who never were + to be told twice about walking. Gone the way of all promises, is that + promise? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, October 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Like your kindness—too, far too generous kindness,—all this trouble + and correcting,—and it is my proper office now, by this time, to sit + still and receive, by right <i>Human</i> (as opposed to Divine). When you + see the pamphlet's self, you will find your own doing,—but where will + you find the proofs of the best of all helping and counselling and + inciting, unless in new works which shall justify the + <i>unsatisfaction</i>, if I may not say shame, at these, these written + before your time, my best love? +</p> +<p> + Are you doing well to-day? For I feel well, have walked some eight or + nine miles—and my mother is very much better ... is singularly + better. You know whether you rejoiced me or no by that information + about the exercise <i>you</i> had taken yesterday. Think what telling one + that you grow stronger would mean! +</p> +<p> + 'Vexatious' with you! Ah, prudence is all very right, and one ought, + no doubt, to say, 'of course, we shall not expect a life exempt from + the usual proportion of &c. &c.—' but truth is still more right, and + includes the highest prudence besides, and I do believe that we shall + be happy; that is, that <i>you</i> will be happy: you see I dare + confidently expect <i>the</i> end to it all ... so it has always been with + me in my life of wonders—absolute wonders, with God's hand over + all.... And this last and best of all would never have begun so, and + gone on so, to break off abruptly even here, in this world, for the + little time. +</p> +<p> + So try, try, dearest, every method, take every measure of hastening + such a consummation. Why, we shall see Italy together! I could, would, + <i>will</i> shut myself in four walls of a room with you and never leave + you and be most of all <i>then</i> 'a lord of infinite space'—but, to + travel with you to Italy, or Greece. Very vain, I know that, all such + day dreaming! And ungrateful, too; with the real sufficing happiness + here of being, and knowing that you know me to be, and suffer me to + tell you I am yours, ever your own. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless you, my dearest— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, November 1, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + All to-day, Friday, Miss Mitford has been here! She came at two and + went away at seven—and I feel as if I had been making a five-hour + speech on the corn laws in Harriet Martineau's parliament; ... so + tired I am. Not that dear Miss Mitford did not talk both for me and + herself, ... for that, of course she did. But I was forced to answer + once every ten minutes at least—and Flush, my usual companion, does + not exact so much—and so I am tired and come to rest myself on this + paper. Your name was not once spoken to-day; a little from my good + fencing: when I saw you at the end of an alley of associations, I + pushed the conversation up the next—because I was afraid of questions + such as every moment I expected, with a pair of woman's eyes behind + them; and those are worse than Mr. Kenyon's, when he puts on his + spectacles. So your name was not once spoken—not thought of, I do not + say—perhaps when I once lost her at Chevy Chase and found her + suddenly with Isidore the queen's hairdresser, my thoughts might have + wandered off to you and your unanswered letter while she passed + gradually from that to this—I am not sure of the contrary. And + Isidore, they say, reads Béranger, and is supposed to be the most + literary person at court—and wasn't at Chevy Chase one must needs + think. +</p> +<p> + One must needs write nonsense rather—for I have written it there. The + sense and the truth is, that your letter went to the bottom of my + heart, and that my thoughts have turned round it ever since and + through all the talking to-day. Yes indeed, dreams! But what <i>is</i> not + dreaming is this and this—this reading of these words—this proof of + this regard—all this that you are to me in fact, and which you cannot + guess the full meaning of, dramatic poet as you are ... cannot ... + since you do not know what my life meant before you touched it, ... + and my angel at the gate of the prison! My wonder is greater than your + wonders, ... I who sate here alone but yesterday, so weary of my own + being that to take interest in my very poems I had to lift them up by + an effort and separate them from myself and cast them out from me into + the sunshine where I was not—feeling nothing of the light which fell + on them even—making indeed a sort of pleasure and interest about that + factitious personality associated with them ... but knowing it to be + all far on the outside of <i>me</i> ... <i>myself</i> ... not seeming to touch + it with the end of my finger ... and receiving it as a mockery and a + bitterness when people persisted in confounding one with another. + Morbid it was if you like it—perhaps very morbid—but all these heaps + of letters which go into the fire one after the other, and which, + because I am a woman and have written verses, it seems so amusing to + the letter-writers of your sex to write and see 'what will come of + it,' ... some, from kind good motives I know, ... well, ... how could + it all make for me even such a narrow strip of sunshine as Flush finds + on the floor sometimes, and lays his nose along, with both ears out in + the shadow? It was not for <i>me</i> ... <i>me</i> ... in any way: it was not + within my reach—I did not seem to touch it as I said. Flush came + nearer, and I was grateful to him ... yes, grateful ... for not being + tired! I have felt grateful and flattered ... yes flattered ... when + he has chosen rather to stay with me all day than go down-stairs. + Grateful too, with reason, I have been and am to my own family for not + letting me see that I was a burthen. These are facts. And now how am I + to feel when you tell me what you have told me—and what you 'could + would and will' do, and <i>shall not</i> do?... but when you tell me? +</p> +<p> + Only remember that such words make you freer and freer—if you can be + freer than free—just as every one makes me happier and richer—too + rich by you, to claim any debt. May God bless you always. When I wrote + that letter to let you come the first time, do you know, the tears ran + down my cheeks.... I could not tell why: partly it might be mere + nervousness. And then, I was vexed with you for wishing to come as + other people did, and vexed with myself for not being able to refuse + you as I did them. +</p> +<p> + When does the book come out? Not on the first, I begin to be glad. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + I trust that you go on to take exercise—and that your mother is still + better. Occy's worst symptom now is too great an appetite ... a + monster-appetite indeed. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Only a word to tell you Moxon promises the books for to-morrow, + Wednesday—so towards evening yours will reach you—'parve liber, sine + me ibis' ... would I were by you, then and ever! You see, and know, + and understand why I can neither talk to you, nor write to you <i>now</i>, + as we are now;—from the beginning, the personal interest absorbed + every other, greater or smaller—but as one cannot well,—or should + not,—sit quite silently, the words go on, about Horne, or what + chances—while you are in my thought. +</p> +<p> + But when I have you ... so it seems ... <i>in</i> my very heart; when you + are entirely with me—oh, the day—then it will all go better, talk + and writing too. +</p> +<p> + Love me, my own love; not as I love you—not for—but I cannot write + that. Nor do I ask anything, with all your gifts here, except for the + luxury of asking. Withdraw nothing, then, dearest, from your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 6, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I had your note last night, and am waiting for the book to-day; a true + living breathing book, let the writer say of it what he will. Also + when it comes it won't certainly come 'sine te.' Which is my comfort. +</p> +<p> + And now—not to make any more fuss about a matter of simple + restitution—may I have my letter back?... I mean the letter which if + you did not destroy ... did not punish for its sins long and long ago + ... belongs to me—which, if destroyed, I must lose for my sins, ... + but, if undestroyed, which I may have back; may I not? is it not my + own? must I not?—that letter I was made to return and now turn to ask + for again in further expiation. Now do I ask humbly enough? And send + it at once, if undestroyed—do not wait till Saturday. +</p> +<p> + I have considered about Mr. Kenyon and it seems best, in the event of + a question or of a remark equivalent to a question, to confess to the + visits 'generally once a week' ... because he may hear, one, two, + three different ways, ... not to say the other reasons and Chaucer's + charge against 'doubleness.' I fear ... I fear that he (not Chaucer) + will wonder a little—and he has looked at me with scanning spectacles + already and talked of its being a mystery to him how you made your way + here; and <i>I</i>, who though I can <i>bespeak</i> self-command, have no sort + of presence of mind (not so much as one would use to play at Jack + straws) did not help the case at all. Well—it cannot be helped. Did I + ever tell you what he said of you once—'<i>that you deserved to be a + poet</i>—being one in your heart and life:' he said <i>that</i> of you to me, + and I thought it a noble encomium and deserving its application. +</p> +<p> + For the rest ... yes: you know I do—God knows I do. Whatever I can + feel is for you—and perhaps it is not less, for not being simmered + away in too much sunshine as with women accounted happier. <i>I</i> am + happy besides now—happy enough to die now. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you, dear—dearest—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever I am yours— +</p> +<p> + The book does not come—so I shall not wait. Mr. Kenyon came instead, + and comes again on <i>Friday</i> he says, and Saturday seems to be clear + still. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p> + <i>Just</i> arrived!—(mind, the <i>silent writing</i> overflows the page, and + laughs at the black words for Mr. Kenyon to read!)—But your note + arrived earlier—more of that, when I write after this dreadful + dispatching-business that falls on me—friend A. and B. and C. must + get their copy, and word of regard, all by next post!— +</p> +<p> + <a name="268"></a>Could you think <i>that</i> that untoward letter lived one <i>moment</i> after + it returned to me? I burned it and cried 'serve it right'! Poor + letter,—yet I should have been vexed and offended <i>then</i> to be told I + <i>could</i> love you better than I did already. 'Live and <i>learn</i>!' Live + and love you—dearest, as loves you +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + You will write to reassure me about Saturday, if not for other + reasons. See your corrections ... and understand that in one or two + instances in which they would seem not to be adopted, they <i>are</i> so, + by some modification of the previous, or following line ... as in one + of the Sorrento lines ... about a 'turret'—see! (Can you give me + Horne's address—I would send then.) +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, November 7, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I see and know; read and mark; and only hope there is no harm done by + my meddling; and lose the sense of it all in the sense of beauty and + power everywhere, which nobody could kill, if they took to meddling + more even. And now, what will people say to this and this and this—or + 'O seclum insipiens et inficetum!' or rather, O ungrateful right hand + which does not thank you first! I do thank you. I have been reading + everything with new delight; and at intervals remembering in + inglorious complacency (for which you must try to forgive me) that Mr. + Forster is no longer anything like an enemy. And yet (just see what + contradiction!) the <i>British Quarterly</i> has been abusing me so at + large, that I can only take it to be the achievement of a very + particular friend indeed,—of someone who positively never reviewed + before and tries his new sword on me out of pure friendship. Only I + suppose it is not the general rule, and that there are friends 'with a + difference.' Not that you are to fancy me pained—oh no!—merely + surprised. I was prepared for anything almost from the quarter in + question, but scarcely for being hung 'to the crows' so publicly ... + though within the bounds of legitimate criticisms, mind. But oh—the + creatures of your sex are not always magnanimous—<i>that</i> is true. And + to put <i>you</i> between me and all ... the thought of <i>you</i> ... in a + great eclipse of the world ... <i>that</i> is happy ... only, too happy for + such as I am; as my own heart warns me hour by hour. +</p> +<p> + 'Serve <i>me</i> right'—I do not dare to complain. I wished for the safety + of that letter so much that I finished by persuading myself of the + probability of it: but 'serve <i>me</i> right' quite clearly. And yet—but + no more 'and yets' about it. 'And yets' fray the silk. +</p> +<p> + I see how the 'turret' stands in the new reading, triumphing over the + 'tower,' and unexceptionable in every respect. Also I do hold that + nobody with an ordinary understanding has the slightest pretence for + attaching a charge of obscurity to this new number—there are lights + enough for the critics to scan one another's dull blank of visage by. + One verse indeed in that expressive lyric of the 'Lost Mistress,' does + still seem questionable to me, though you have changed a word since I + saw it; and still I fancy that I rather leap at the meaning than reach + it—but it is my own fault probably ... I am not sure. With that one + exception I <i>am quite</i> sure that people who shall complain of darkness + are blind ... I mean, that the construction is clear and unembarrassed + everywhere. Subtleties of thought which are not directly apprehensible + by minds of a common range, are here as elsewhere in your + writings—but if to utter things 'hard to understand' from <i>that</i> + cause be an offence, why we may begin with 'our beloved brother Paul,' + you know, and go down through all the geniuses of the world, and bid + them put away their inspirations. You must descend to the level of + critic A or B, that he may look into your face.... Ah well!—'Let them + rave.' You will live when all <i>those</i> are under the willows. In the + meantime there is something better, as you said, even than your + poetry—as the giver is better than the gift, and the maker than the + creature, and <i>you</i> than <i>yours</i>. Yes—<i>you</i> than <i>yours</i>.... (I did + not mean it so when I wrote it first ... but I accept the 'bona + verba,' and use the phrase for the end of my letter) ... as <i>you</i> are + better than <i>yours</i>; even when so much yours as your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + May I see the first act first? Let me!—And you walk? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Horne's address is Hill Side, Fitzroy Park, Highgate. +</p> +<p> + There is no reason against Saturday so far. Mr. Kenyon comes + to-morrow, Friday, and therefore—!—and if Saturday should become + impracticable, I will write again. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i><a name="270">R.B. to E.B.B.</a></i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, November 10, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When I come back from seeing you, and think over it all, there never + is a least word of yours I could not occupy myself with, and wish to + return to you with some ... not to say, all ... the thoughts and + fancies it is sure to call out of me. There is nothing in you that + does not draw out all of me. You possess me, dearest ... and there is + no help for the expressing it all, no voice nor hand, but these of + mine which shrink and turn away from the attempt. So you must go on, + patiently, knowing me more and more, and your entire power on me, and + I will console myself, to the full extent, with your + knowledge—penetration, intuition—<i>somehow</i> I must believe you can + get to what is here, in me, without the pretence of my telling or + writing it. But, because I give up the great achievements, there is no + reason I should not secure any occasion of making clear one of the + less important points that arise in our intercourse ... if I fancy I + can do it with the least success. For instance, it is on my mind to + explain what I meant yesterday by trusting that the entire happiness I + feel in the letters, and the help in the criticising might not be hurt + by the surmise, even, that those labours to which you were born, might + be suspended, in any degree, through such generosity to <i>me</i>. Dearest, + I believed in your glorious genius and knew it for a true star from + the moment I saw it; long before I had the blessing of knowing it was + <SPAN class="sc-ex">my</span> star, with my fortune and futurity in it. And, when I draw back + from myself, and look better and more clearly, then I <i>do</i> feel, with + you, that the writing a few letters more or less, reading many or few + rhymes of any other person, would not interfere in any material degree + with that power of yours—that you might easily make one so happy and + yet go on writing 'Geraldines' and 'Berthas'—but—how can I, dearest, + leave my heart's treasures long, even to look at your genius?... and + when I come back and find all safe, find the comfort of you, the + traces of you ... <i>will</i> it do—tell me—to trust all that as a light + effort, an easy matter? +</p> +<p> + Yet, if you can lift me with one hand, while the other suffices to + crown you—there is queenliness in <i>that</i>, too! +</p> +<p> + Well, I have spoken. As I told you, your turn comes now. How have you + determined respecting the American Edition? You tell me nothing of + yourself! It is all <SPAN class="sc-ex">me</span> you help, me you do good to ... and I take it + all! Now see, if this goes on! I have not had <i>every</i> love-luxury, I + now find out ... where is the proper, rationally + to-be-expected—'<i>lovers' quarrel</i>'? <i>Here</i>, as you will find! 'Iræ; + amantium'.... I am no more 'at a loss with my Naso,' than Peter + Ronsard. Ah, but then they are to be <i>reintegratio amoris</i>—and to get + back into a thing, one must needs get for a moment first out of it ... + trust me, no! And now, the natural inference from all this? The + consistent inference ... the 'self-denying ordinance'? Why—do you + doubt? even this,—you must just put aside the Romance, and tell the + Americans to wait, and make my heart start up when the letter is laid + to it; the letter full of your news, telling me you are well and + walking, and working for my sake towards <i>the time</i>—informing me, + moreover, if Thursday or Friday is to be my day—. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, my own love. +</p> +<p> + I will certainly bring you an Act of the Play ... for this serpent's + reason, in addition to the others ... that—No, I will <i>tell</i> you + that—I can tell you now more than even lately! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> +<a name="image-0004"><!--IMG--></a> +<center> +<img src="images/image02.png" width="554" height="800" +alt="Facsimile of Letter of Robert Browning, Nov. 10, 1845"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<br> + +<center> +<img src="images/image03.png" width="541" height="800" +alt="Page 2 of Letter"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<br> + +<center> +<img src="images/image04.png" width="622" height="800" +alt="Page 3 of Letter"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<br> + +<center> +<img src="images/image05.png" width="554" height="642" +alt="Envelope"> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<br> +<br> + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + +<b>Facsimile of Letter of Robert Browning</b></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + +<a href="#270">(See Vol. I., p. 270)</a> +</p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> +<h3> + <i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> +</h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 11, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + If it were possible that you could do me harm in the way of work, (but + it isn't) it would be possible, not through writing letters and + reading manuscripts, but because of a reason to be drawn from your own + great line +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">What man is strong until he stands alone? +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">What man ... what woman? For have I not felt twenty times the desolate + advantage of being insulated here and of not minding anybody when I + made my poems?—of living a little like a disembodied spirit, and + caring less for suppositious criticism than for the black fly buzzing + in the pane?—<i>That</i> made me what dear Mr. Kenyon calls + 'insolent,'—untimid, and unconventional in my degree; and not so much + by strength, you see, as by separation. <i>You</i> touch your greater ends + by mere strength; breaking with your own hands the hampering threads + which, in your position would have hampered <i>me</i>. +</p> +<p> + Still ... when all is changed for me now, and different, it is not + possible, ... for all the changing, nor for all your line and my + speculation, ... that I should not be better and stronger for being + within your influences and sympathies, in this way of writing as in + other ways. We shall see—you will see. Yet I have been idle lately I + confess; leaning half out of some turret-window of the castle of + Indolence and watching the new sunrise—as why not?—Do I mean to be + idle always?—no!—and am I not an industrious worker on the average + of days? Indeed yes! Also I have been less idle than you think + perhaps, even this last year, though the results seem so like + trifling: and I shall set about the prose papers for the New York + people, and the something rather better besides we may hope ... may + <i>I</i> not hope, if <i>you</i> wish it? Only there is no 'crown' for me, be + sure, except what grows from this letter and such letters ... this + sense of being anything to <i>one</i>! there is no room for another crown. + Have I a great head like Goethe's that there should be room? and mine + is bent down already by the unused weight—and as to bearing it, ... + 'Will it do,—tell me; to treat <i>that</i> as a light effort, an easy + matter?' +</p> +<p> + Now let me remember to tell you that the line of yours I have just + quoted, and which has been present with me since you wrote it, Mr. + Chorley has quoted too in his new novel of 'Pomfret.' You were right + in your identifying of servant and waistcoat—and Wilson waited only + till you had gone on Saturday, to give me a parcel and note; the novel + itself in fact, which Mr. Chorley had the kindness to send me 'some + days or weeks,' said the note, 'previous to the publication.' Very + goodnatured of him certainly: and the book seems to me his best work + in point of sustainment and vigour, and I am in process of being + interested in it. Not that he is a <i>maker</i>, even for this prose. A + feeler ... an observer ... a thinker even, in a certain sphere—but a + maker ... no, as it seems to me—and if I were he, I would rather herd + with the essayists than the novelists where he is too good to take + inferior rank and not strong enough to 'go up higher.' Only it would + be more right in me to be grateful than to talk so—now wouldn't it? +</p> +<p> + And here is Mr. Kenyon's letter back again—a kind good letter ... a + letter I have liked to read (so it was kind and good in you to let + me!)—and he was with me to-day and praising the 'Ride to Ghent,' and + praising the 'Duchess,' and praising you altogether as I liked to hear + him. The Ghent-ride was 'very fine'—and the +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Into the midnight they galloped abreast +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">drew us out into the night as witnesses. And then, the 'Duchess' ... + the conception of it was noble, and the vehicle, rhythm and all, most + characteristic and individual ... though some of the rhymes ... oh, + some of the rhymes did not find grace in his ears—but the + incantation-scene, 'just trenching on the supernatural,' <i>that</i> was + taken to be 'wonderful,' ... 'showing extraordinary power, ... as + indeed other things did ... works of a highly original writer and of + such various faculty!'—Am I not tired of writing your praises as he + said then? So I shall tell you, instead of any more, that I went down + to the drawing-room yesterday (because it was warm enough) by an act + of supererogatory virtue for which you may praise <i>me</i> in turn. What + weather it is! and how the year seems to have forgotten itself into + April. +</p> +<p> + But after all, how have I answered your letter? and how <i>are</i> such + letters to be answered? Do we answer the sun when he shines? May God + bless you ... it is my answer—with one word besides ... that I am + wholly and ever your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + On Thursday as far as I know yet—and you shall hear if there should + be an obstacle. <i>Will you walk?</i> If you will not, you know, you must + be forgetting me a little. Will you remember me too in the act of the + play?—but above all things in taking the right exercise, and in not + overworking the head. And this for no serpent's reason. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Two letters in one—Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 15, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I shall see you to-morrow and yet am writing what you will have to + read perhaps. When you spoke of 'stars' and 'geniuses' in that letter, + I did not seem to hear; I was listening to those words of the letter + which were of a better silver in the sound than even your praise could + be; and now that at last I come to hear them in their extravagance (oh + such pure extravagance about 'glorious geniuses'—) I can't help + telling you they were heard last, and deserved it. +</p> +<p> + Shall I tell you besides?—The first moment in which I seemed to admit + to myself in a flash of lightning the <i>possibility</i> of your affection + for me being more than dream-work ... the first moment was <i>that</i> when + you intimated (as you have done since repeatedly) that you cared for + me not for a reason, but because you cared for me. Now such a + 'parceque' which reasonable people would take to be irrational, was + just the only one fitted to the uses of my understanding on the + particular question we were upon ... just the 'woman's reason' + suitable to the woman ...; for I could understand that it might be as + you said, and, if so, that it was altogether unanswerable ... do you + see? If a fact includes its own cause ... why there it stands for + ever—one of 'earth's immortalities'—<i>as long as it includes it</i>. +</p> +<p> + And when unreasonableness stands for a reason, it is a promising state + of things, we may both admit, and proves what it would be as well not + too curiously to enquire into. But then ... to look at it in a + brighter aspect, ... I do remember how, years ago, when talking the + foolishnesses which women will talk when they are by themselves, and + not forced to be sensible, ... one of my friends thought it 'safest to + begin with a little aversion,' and another, wisest to begin with a + great deal of esteem, and how the best attachments were produced so + and so, ... I took it into my head to say that the best was where + there was no cause at all for it, and the more wholly unreasonable, + the better still; that the motive should lie in the feeling itself and + not in the object of it—and that the affection which could (if it + could) throw itself out on an idiot with a goître would be more + admirable than Abelard's. Whereupon everybody laughed, and someone + thought it affected of me and no true opinion, and others said plainly + that it was immoral, and somebody else hoped, in a sarcasm, that I + meant to act out my theory for the advantage of the world. To which I + replied quite gravely that I had not virtue enough—and so, people + laughed as it is fair to laugh when other people are esteemed to talk + nonsense. And all this came back to me in the south wind of your + 'parceque,' and I tell it as it came ... now. +</p> +<p> + Which proves, if it proves anything, ... while I have every sort of + natural pleasure in your praises and like you to like my poetry just + as I should, and perhaps more than I should; yet <i>why</i> it is all + behind ... and in its place—and <i>why</i> I have a tendency moreover to + sift and measure any praise of yours and to separate it from the + superfluities, far more than with any other person's praise in the + world. +</p> +<p> + <i>Friday evening.</i>—Shall I send this letter or not? I have been 'tra + 'l si e 'l no,' and writing a new beginning on a new sheet even—but + after all you ought to hear the remote echo of your last letter ... + far out among the hills, ... as well as the immediate reverberation, + and so I will send it,—and what I send is not to be answered, + remember! +</p> +<p> + I read Luria's first act twice through before I slept last night, and + feel just as a bullet might feel, not because of the lead of it but + because shot into the air and suddenly arrested and suspended. It + ('Luria') is all life, and we know (that is, the reader knows) that + there must be results here and here. How fine that sight of Luria is + upon the lynx hides—how you see the Moor in him just in the glimpse + you have by the eyes of another—and that laugh when the horse drops + the forage, what wonderful truth and character you have in + <i>that</i>!—And then, when <i>he</i> is in the scene—: 'Golden-hearted Luria' + you called him once to me, and his heart shines already ... wide open + to the morning sun. The construction seems to me very clear + everywhere—and the rhythm, even over-smooth in a few verses, where + you invert a little artificially—but that shall be set down on a + separate strip of paper: and in the meantime I am snatched up into + 'Luria' and feel myself driven on to the ends of the poet, just as a + reader should. +</p> +<p> + But <i>you</i> are not driven on to any ends? so as to be tired, I mean? + You will not suffer yourself to be overworked because you are + 'interested' in this work. I am so certain that the sensations in your + head <i>demand</i> repose; and it must be so injurious to you to be + perpetually calling, calling these new creations, one after another, + that you must consent to be called <i>to</i>, and not hurry the next act, + no, nor any act—let the people have time to learn the last number by + heart. And how glad I am that Mr. Fox should say what he did of it ... + though it wasn't true, you know ... not exactly. Still, I do hold that + as far as construction goes, you never put together so much + unquestionable, smooth glory before, ... not a single entanglement for + the understanding ... unless 'the snowdrops' make an exception—while + for the undeniableness of genius it never stood out before your + readers more plainly than in that same number! Also you have extended + your sweep of power—the sea-weed is thrown farther (if not higher) + than it was found before; and one may calculate surely now how a few + more waves will cover the brown stones and float the sight up away + through the fissure of the rocks. The rhythm (to touch one of the + various things) the rhythm of that 'Duchess' does more and more strike + me as a new thing; something like (if like anything) what the Greeks + called pedestrian-metre, ... between metre and prose ... the difficult + rhymes combining too quite curiously with the easy looseness of the + general measure. Then 'The Ride'—with that touch of natural feeling + at the end, to prove that it was not in brutal carelessness that the + poor horse was driven through all that suffering ... yes, and how that + one touch of softness acts back upon the energy and resolution and + exalts both, instead of weakening anything, as might have been + expected by the vulgar of writers or critics. And then 'Saul'—and in + a first place 'St. Praxed'—and for pure description, 'Fortú' and the + deep 'Pictor Ignotus'—and the noble, serene 'Italy in England,' which + grows on you the more you know of it—and that delightful 'Glove'—and + the short lyrics ... for one comes to <i>'select' everything</i> at last, + and certainly I do like these poems better and better, as your poems + are made to be liked. But you will be tired to hear it said over and + over so, ... and I am going to 'Luria,' besides. +</p> +<p> + When you write will you say exactly how you are? and will you write? + And I want to explain to you that although I don't make a profession + of equable spirits, (as a matter of temperament, my spirits were + always given to rock a little, up and down) yet that I did not mean to + be so ungrateful and wicked as to complain of low spirits now and to + you. It would not be true either: and I said 'low' to express a merely + bodily state. My opium comes in to keep the pulse from fluttering and + fainting ... to give the right composure and point of balance to the + nervous system. I don't take it for 'my spirits' in the usual sense; + you must not think such a thing. The medical man who came to see me + made me take it the other day when he was in the room, before the + right hour and when I was talking quite cheerfully, just for the need + he observed in the pulse. 'It was a necessity of my position,' he + said. Also I do not suffer from it in any way, as people usually do + who take opium. I am not even subject to an opium-headache. As to the + low spirits I will not say that mine <i>have not</i> been low enough and + with cause enough; but <i>even then</i>, ... why if you were to ask the + nearest witnesses, ... say, even my own sisters, ... everybody would + tell you, I think, that the 'cheerfulness' even <i>then</i>, was the + remarkable thing in me—certainly it has been remarked about me again + and again. Nobody has known that it was an effort (a habit of effort) + to throw the light on the outside,—I do abhor so that ignoble + groaning aloud of the 'groans of Testy and Sensitude'—yet I may say + that for three years I never was conscious of one movement of pleasure + in anything. Think if I could mean to complain of 'low spirits' now, + and to you. Why it would be like complaining of not being able to see + at noon—which would simply prove that I was very blind. And you, who + are not blind, cannot make out what is written—so you <i>need not try</i>. + May God bless you long after you have done blessing me! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Now I am half tempted to tear this letter in two (and it is long + enough for three) and to send you only the latter half. But you will + understand—you will not think that there is a contradiction between + the first and last ... you <i>cannot</i>. One is a truth of me—and the + other a truth of you—and we two are different, you know. +</p> +<p> + You are not over-working in 'Luria'? That you <i>should not</i>, is a + truth, too. +</p> +<p> + I observed that Mr. Kenyon put in '<i>Junior</i>' to your address. Ought + that to be done? or does my fashion of directing find you without + hesitation? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon asked me for Mr. Chorley's book, or you should have it. + Shall I send it to you presently? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, November 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + At last your letter comes—and the deep joy—(I know and use to + analyse my own feelings, and be sober in giving distinctive names to + their varieties; this is <i>deep</i> joy,)—the true love with which I + take this much of you into my heart, ... <i>that</i> proves what it is I + wanted so long, and find at last, and am happy for ever. I must have + more than 'intimated'—I must have spoken plainly out the truth, if I + do myself the barest justice, and told you long ago that the + admiration at your works went <i>away</i>, quite another way and afar from + the love of you. If I could fancy some method of what I shall say + happening without all the obvious stumbling-blocks of falseness, &c. + which no foolish fancy dares associate with you ... if you <SPAN class="sc-ex">could</span> tell + me when I next sit by you—'I will undeceive you,—I am not <i>the</i> Miss + B.—she is up-stairs and you shall see her—I only wrote those + letters, and am what you see, that is all now left you' (all the + misapprehension having arisen from <i>me</i>, in some inexplicable way) ... + I should not begin by <i>saying</i> anything, dear, dearest—but <i>after + that</i>, I should assure you—soon make you believe that I did not much + wonder at the event, for I have been all my life asking what + connection there is between the satisfaction at the display of power, + and the sympathy with—ever-increasing sympathy with—all imaginable + weakness? Look now: Coleridge writes on and on,—at last he writes a + note to his 'War-Eclogue,' in which he avers himself to have been + actuated by a really—on the whole—<i>benevolent</i> feeling to Mr. Pitt + when he wrote that stanza in which 'Fire' means to 'cling to him + everlastingly'—where is the long line of admiration now that the end + snaps? And now—here I refuse to fancy—you <SPAN class="sc-ex">know</span> whether, if you never + write another line, speak another intelligible word, recognize me by a + look again—whether I shall love you less or <i>more</i> ... <SPAN class="sc-ex">more</span>; having a + right to expect more strength with the strange emergency. And it is + because I know this, build upon this entirely, that as a reasonable + creature, I am bound to look first to what hangs farthest and most + loosely from me ... what <i>might</i> go from you to your loss, and so to + mine, to say the least ... because I want <SPAN class="sc-ex">all</span> of you, not just so much + as I could not live without—and because I see the danger of your + entirely generous disposition and cannot quite, yet, bring myself to + profit by it in the quiet way you recommend. Always remember, I never + wrote to you, all the years, on the strength of your poetry, though I + constantly heard of you through Mr. K. and was near seeing you once, + and might have easily availed myself of his intervention to commend + any letter to your notice, so as to reach you out of the foolish crowd + of rushers-in upon genius ... who come and eat their bread and cheese + on the high-altar, and talk of reverence without one of its surest + instincts—never quiet till they cut their initials on the cheek of + the Medicean Venus to prove they worship her. My admiration, as I + said, went its natural way in silence—but when on my return to + England in December, late in the month, Mr. K. sent those Poems to my + sister, and I read my name there—and when, a day or two after, I met + him and, beginning to speak my mind on them, and getting on no better + than I should now, said quite naturally—'if I were to <i>write</i> this, + now?'—and he assured me with his perfect kindness, you would be even + 'pleased' to hear from me under those circumstances ... nay,—for I + will tell you all, in this, in everything—when he wrote me a note + soon after to reassure me on that point ... <SPAN class="sc-ex">then</span> I <i>did</i> write, on + <i>account of my purely personal obligation</i>, though of course taking + that occasion to allude to the general and customary delight in your + works: I did write, on the whole, <SPAN class="sc-ex">unwillingly</span> ... with consciousness + of having to <i>speak</i> on a subject which I <i>felt</i> thoroughly + concerning, and could not be satisfied with an imperfect expression + of. As for expecting <SPAN class="sc-ex">then</span> what has followed ... I shall only say I was + scheming how to get done with England and go to my heart in Italy. And + now, my love—I am round you ... my whole life is wound up and down + and over you.... I feel you stir everywhere. I am not conscious of + thinking or feeling but <i>about</i> you, with some reference to you—so I + will live, so may I die! And you have blessed me <i>beyond</i> the <i>bond</i>, + in more than in giving me yourself to love; inasmuch as you believed + me from the first ... what you call 'dream-work' <i>was</i> real of its + kind, did you not think? and now you believe me, <i>I</i> believe and am + happy, in what I write with my heart full of love for you. Why do you + tell me of a doubt, as now, and bid me not clear it up, 'not answer + you?' Have I done wrong in thus answering? Never, never do <i>me</i> direct + <i>wrong</i> and hide for a moment from me what a word can explain as now. + You see, you thought, if but for a moment, I loved your intellect—or + what predominates in your poetry and is most distinct from your + heart—better, or as well as you—did you not? and I have told you + every thing,—explained everything ... have I not? And now I will dare + ... yes, dearest, kiss you back to my heart again; my own. There—and + there! +</p> +<p> + And since I wrote what is above, I have been reading among other poems + that sonnet—'Past and Future'—which affects me more than any poem I + ever read. How can I put your poetry away from you, even in these + ineffectual attempts to concentrate myself upon, and better apply + myself to what remains?—poor, poor work it is; for is not that sonnet + to be loved as a true utterance of yours? I cannot attempt to put down + the thoughts that rise; may God bless me, as you pray, by letting that + beloved hand shake the less ... I will only ask, <i>the less</i> ... for + being laid on mine through this life! And, indeed, you write down, for + me to calmly read, that I make you happy! Then it is—as with all + power—God through the weakest instrumentality ... and I am past + expression proud and grateful—My love, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + I must answer your questions: I am better—and will certainly have + your injunction before my eyes and work quite moderately. Your letters + come <i>straight</i> to me—my father's go to Town, except on extraordinary + occasions, so that <i>all</i> come for my first looking-over. I saw Mr. K. + last night at the Amateur Comedy—and heaps of old acquaintances—and + came home tired and savage—and <i>yearned</i> literally, for a letter this + morning, and so it came and I was well again. So, I am not even to + have your low spirits leaning on mine? It was just because I always + find you alike, and <i>ever</i> like yourself, that I seemed to discern a + depth, when you spoke of 'some days' and what they made uneven where + all is agreeable to <i>me</i>. Do not, now, deprive me of a right—a right + ... to find you as you <i>are</i>; get no habit of being cheerful with + me—I have universal sympathy and can show you a <SPAN class="sc-ex">side</span> of me, a true + face, turn as you may. If you <i>are</i> cheerful ... so will I be ... if + sad, my cheerfulness will be all the while <i>behind</i>, and propping up, + any sadness that meets yours, if that should be necessary. As for my + question about the opium ... you do not misunderstand <i>that</i> neither: + I trust in the eventual consummation of my—shall I not say, + <i>our</i>—hopes; and all that bears upon your health immediately or + prospectively, affects me—how it affects me! Will you write again? + <i>Wednesday</i>, remember! Mr. K. wants me to go to him one of the three + next days after. I will bring you some letters ... one from Landor. + Why should I trouble you about 'Pomfret.' +</p> +<p> + And Luria ... does it so interest you? Better is to come of it. How + you lift me up!— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 18, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How you overcome me as always you do—and where is the answer to + anything except too deep down in the heart for even the pearl-divers? + But understand ... what you do not quite ... that I did not mistake + you as far even as you say here and even 'for a moment.' I did not + write any of that letter in a 'doubt' of you—not a word.... I was + simply looking back in it on my own states of feeling, ... looking + back from that point of your praise to what was better ... (or I + should not have looked back)—and so coming to tell you, by a natural + association, how the completely opposite point to that of any praise + was the one which struck me first and most, viz. the no-reason of your + reasoning ... acknowledged to be yours. Of course I acknowledge it to + be yours, ... that high reason of no reason—I acknowledged it to be + yours (didn't I?) in acknowledging that it made an impression on me. + And then, referring to the traditions of my experience such as I told + them to you, I meant, so, farther to acknowledge that I would rather + be cared for in <i>that</i> unreasonable way, than for the best reason in + the world. But all <i>that</i> was history and philosophy simply—was it + not?—and not <i>doubt of you</i>. +</p> +<p> + The truth is ... since we really are talking truths in this world ... + that I never have doubted you—ah, you <i>know</i>!—I felt from the + beginning so sure of the nobility and integrity in you that I would + have trusted you to make a path for my soul—<i>that</i>, you <i>know</i>. I + felt certain that you believed of yourself every word you spoke or + wrote—and you must not blame me if I thought besides sometimes (it + was the extent of my thought) that you were self-deceived as to the + nature of your own feelings. If you could turn over every page of my + heart like the pages of a book, you would see nothing there offensive + to the least of your feelings ... not even to the outside fringes of + your man's vanity ... should you have any vanity like a man; which I + <i>do</i> doubt. I never wronged you in the least of things—never ... I + thank God for it. But 'self-deceived,' it was so easy for you to be: + see how on every side and day by day, men are—and women too—in this + sort of feelings. 'Self-deceived,' it was so possible for you to be, + and while I thought it possible, could I help thinking it <i>best</i> for + you that it should be so—and was it not right in me to persist in + thinking it possible? It was my reverence for you that made me + persist! What was <i>I</i> that I should think otherwise? I had been shut + up here too long face to face with my own spirit, not to know myself, + and, so, to have lost the common illusions of vanity. All the men I + had ever known could not make your stature among them. So it was not + distrust, but reverence rather. I sate by while the angel stirred the + water, and I called it <i>Miracle</i>. Do not blame me now, ... <i>my</i> angel! +</p> +<p> + Nor say, that I 'do not lean' on you with all the weight of my 'past' + ... because I do! You cannot guess what you are to me—you cannot—it + is not possible:—and though I have said <i>that</i> before, I must say it + again ... for it comes again to be said. It is something to me between + dream and miracle, all of it—as if some dream of my earliest + brightest dreaming-time had been lying through these dark years to + steep in the sunshine, returning to me in a double light. <i>Can</i> it be, + I say to myself, that <i>you</i> feel for me <i>so</i>? can it be meant for me? + this from <i>you</i>? +</p> +<p> + If it is your 'right' that I should be gloomy at will with you, you + exercise it, I do think—for although I cannot promise to be very + sorrowful when you come, (how could that be?) yet from different + motives it seems to me that I have written to you quite superfluities + about my 'abomination of desolation,'—yes indeed, and blamed myself + afterwards. And now I must say this besides. When grief came upon + grief, I never was tempted to ask 'How have I deserved this of God,' + as sufferers sometimes do: I always felt that there must be cause + enough ... corruption enough, needing purification ... weakness + enough, needing strengthening ... <i>nothing</i> of the chastisement could + come to me without cause and need. But in this different hour, when + joy follows joy, and God makes me happy, as you say, <i>through</i> you ... + I cannot repress the ... 'How have I deserved <i>this</i> of Him?'—I know + I have not—I know I do not. +</p> +<p> + Could it be that heart and life were devastated to make room for + you?—If so, it was well done,—dearest! They leave the ground fallow + before the wheat. +</p> +<p> + 'Were you wrong in answering?' Surely not ... unless it is wrong to + show all this goodness ... and too much, it may be for <i>me</i>. When the + plants droop for drought and the copious showers fall suddenly, silver + upon silver, they die sometimes of the reverse of their adversities. + But no—<i>that</i>, even, shall not be a danger! And if I said 'Do not + answer,' I did not mean that I would not have a doubt removed—(having + <i>no</i> doubt!—) but I was simply unwilling to seem to be asking for + golden words ... going down the aisles with that large silken purse, + as <i>quêteuse</i>. Try to understand. +</p> +<p> + On Wednesday then!—George is invited to meet you on Thursday at Mr. + Kenyon's. +</p> +<p> + The <i>Examiner</i> speaks well, upon the whole, and with allowances ... + oh, that absurdity about metaphysics apart from poetry!—'Can such + things be' in one of the best reviews of the day? Mr. Kenyon was here + on Sunday and talking of the poems with real living tears in his eyes + and on his cheeks. But I will tell you. 'Luria' is to climb to the + place of a great work, I see. And if I write too long letters, is it + not because you spoil me, and because (being spoilt) I cannot help + it?—May God bless you always— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning. +</p> +<p> + Here is the copy of Landor's verses. +</p> +<p> + You know thoroughly, do you not, why I brought all those good-natured + letters, desperate praise and all? Not, <i>not</i> out of the least vanity + in the world—nor to help myself in your sight with such testimony: + would it seem very extravagant, on the contrary, if I said that + perhaps I laid them before your eyes in a real fit of compunction at + not being, in my heart, thankful enough for the evident motive of the + writers,—and so was determined to give them the 'last honours' if + not the first, and not make them miss <i>you</i> because, through my fault, + they had missed <i>me</i>? Does this sound too fantastical? Because it is + strictly true: the most laudatory of all, I <i>skimmed</i> once over with + my flesh <i>creeping</i>—it seemed such a death-struggle, that of good + nature over—well, it is fresh ingratitude of me, so here it shall + end. +</p> +<p> + I am not ungrateful to <i>you</i>—but you must wait to know that:—I can + speak less than nothing with my living lips. +</p> +<p> + I mean to ask your brother how you are to-night ... so quietly! +</p> +<p> + God bless you, my dearest, and reward you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R.B. +</p> +<p> + Mrs. Shelley—with the 'Ricordi.' +</p> +<p> + Of course, Landor's praise is altogether a different gift; a gold vase + from King Hiram; beside he has plenty of conscious rejoicing in his + own riches, and is not left painfully poor by what he sends away. + <i>That</i> is the unpleasant point with some others—they spread you a + board and want to gird up their loins and wait on you there. Landor + says 'come up higher and let us sit and eat together.' Is it not that? +</p> +<p> + Now—you are not to turn on me because the first is my proper feeling + to <i>you</i>, ... for poetry is not the thing given or taken between + us—it is heart and life and <i>my</i>self, not <i>mine</i>, I give—give? That + you glorify and change and, in returning then, give <i>me</i>! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 21, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Thank you! and will you, if your sister made the copy of Landor's + verses for <i>me</i> as well as for you, thank <i>her</i> from me for another + kindness, ... not the second nor the third? For my own part, be sure + that if I did not fall on the right subtle interpretation about the + letters, at least I did not 'think it vain' of you! vain: when, + supposing you really to have been over-gratified by such letters, it + could have proved only an excess of humility!—But ... besides the + subtlety,—you meant to be kind to <i>me</i>, you know,—and I had a + pleasure and an interest in reading them—only that ... mind. Sir John + Hanmer's, I was half angry with! Now <i>is</i> he not cold?—and is it not + easy to see <i>why</i> he is forced to write his own scenes five times over + and over? He might have mentioned the 'Duchess' I think; and he a + poet! Mr. Chorley speaks some things very well—but what does he mean + about 'execution,' <i>en revanche</i>? but I liked his letter and his + candour in the last page of it. Will Mr. Warburton review you? does he + mean <i>that</i>? Now do let me see any other letters you receive. <i>May</i> I? + Of course Landor's 'dwells apart' from all: and besides the reason you + give for being gratified by it, it is well that one prophet should + open his mouth and prophesy and give his witness to the inspiration of + another. See what he says in the letter.... '<i>You may stand quite + alone if you will—and I think you will.' That</i> is a noble testimony + to a <i>truth</i>. And he discriminates—he understands and discerns—they + are not words thrown out into the air. The 'profusion of imagery + covering the depth of thought' is a true description. And, in the + verses, he lays his finger just on your characteristics—just on those + which, when you were only a poet to me, (only a poet: does it sound + irreverent? almost, I think!) which, when you were only a poet to me, + I used to study, characteristic by characteristic, and turn myself + round and round in despair of being ever able to approach, taking them + to be so essentially and intensely masculine that like effects were + unattainable, even in a lower degree, by any female hand. Did I not + tell you so once before? or oftener than once? And must not these + verses of Landor's be printed somewhere—in the <i>Examiner</i>? and again + in the <i>Athenæum</i>? if in the <i>Examiner</i>, certainly again in the + <i>Athenæum</i>—it would be a matter of course. Oh those verses: how they + have pleased me! It was an act worthy of him—and of <i>you</i>. +</p> +<p> + George has been properly 'indoctrinated,' and, we must hope, will do + credit to my instructions. Just now ... just as I was writing ... he + came in to say good-morning and good-night (he goes to chambers + earlier than I receive visitors generally), and to ask with a smile, + if I had 'a message for my friend' ... <i>that</i> was you ... and so he + was indoctrinated. He is good and true, honest and kind, but a little + over-grave and reasonable, as I and my sisters complain continually. + The great Law lime-kiln dries human souls all to one colour—and he is + an industrious reader among law books and knows a good deal about + them, I have heard from persons who can judge; but with a sacrifice of + impulsiveness and liberty of spirit, which <i>I</i> should regret for him + if he sate on the Woolsack even. Oh—that law! how I do detest it! I + hate it and think ill of it—I tell George so sometimes—and he is + good-natured and only thinks to himself (a little audibly now and + then) that I am a woman and talking nonsense. But the morals of it, + and the philosophy of it! And the manners of it! in which the whole + host of barristers looks down on the attorneys and the rest of the + world!—how long are these things to last! +</p> +<p> + Theodosia Garrow, I have seen face to face once or twice. She is very + clever—very accomplished—with talents and tastes of various kinds—a + musician and linguist, in most modern languages I believe—and a + writer of fluent graceful melodious verses, ... you cannot say any + more. At least <i>I</i> cannot—and though I have not seen this last poem + in the 'Book of Beauty,' I have no more trust ready for it than for + its predecessors, of which Mr. Landor said as much. It is the personal + feeling which speaks in him, I fancy—simply the personal + feeling—and, <i>that</i> being the case, it does not spoil the + discriminating appreciation on the other page of this letter. I might + have the modesty to admit besides that I may be wrong and he, right, + all through. But ... 'more intense than Sappho'!—more intense than + intensity itself!—to think of <i>that</i>!—Also the word 'poetry' has a + clear meaning to me, and all the fluency and facility and quick + ear-catching of a tune which one can find in the world, do not answer + to it—no. +</p> +<p> + How is the head? will you tell me? I have written all this without a + word of it, and yet ever since yesterday I have been uneasy, ... I + cannot help it. You see you are not better but worse. 'Since you were + in Italy'—Then is it England that disagrees with you? and is it + change away from England that you want? ... <i>require</i>, I mean. If + so—why what follows and ought to follow? You must not be ill + indeed—<i>that</i> is the first necessity. Tell me how you are, exactly + how you are; and remember to walk, and not to work too much—for my + sake—if you care for me—if it is not too bold of me to say so. I had + fancied you were looking better rather than otherwise: but those + sensations in the head are frightful and ought to be stopped by + whatever means; even by the worst, as they would seem to <i>me</i>. + Well—it was bad news to hear of the increase of pain; for the + amendment was a 'passing show' I fear, and not caused even by thoughts + of mine or it would have appeared before; while on the other side (the + sunny side of the way) I heard on that same yesterday, what made me + glad as good news, a whole gospel of good news, and from <i>you</i> too who + profess to say 'less than nothing,' and <i>that</i> was that '<i>the times + seemed longer to you</i>':—do you remember saying it? And it made me + glad ... happy—perhaps too glad and happy—and surprised: yes, + surprised!—for if you had told me (but you would not have told me) if + you had let me guess ... just the contrary, ... '<i>that the times + seemed shorter</i>,' ... why it would have seemed to <i>me</i> as natural as + nature—oh, believe me it would, and I could not have thought hardly + of you for it in the most secret or silent of my thoughts. How am I + to feel towards you, do you imagine, ... who have the world round you + and yet make me this to you? I never can tell you how, and you never + can know it without having my heart in you with all its experiences: + we measure by those weights. May God bless you! and save <i>me</i> from + being the cause to you of any harm or grief!... I choose it for <i>my</i> + blessing instead of another. What should I be if I could fail + willingly to you in the least thing? But I <i>never will</i>, and you know + it. I will not move, nor speak, nor breathe, so as willingly and + consciously to touch, with one shade of wrong, that precious deposit + of 'heart and life' ... which may yet be recalled. +</p> +<p> + And, so, may God bless you and your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Remember to say how you are. +</p> +<p> + I sent 'Pomfret'—and Shelley is returned, and the letters, in the + same parcel—but my letter goes by the post as you see. Is there + contrast enough between the two rival female personages of 'Pomfret.' + <i>I</i> fancy not. Helena should have been more 'demonstrative' than she + appeared in Italy, to secure the 'new modulation' with Walter. But you + will not think it a strong book, I am sure, with all the good and pure + intention of it. The best character ... most life-like ... as + conventional life goes ... seems to <i>me</i> 'Mr. Rose' ... beyond all + comparison—and the best point, the noiseless, unaffected manner in + which the acting out of the 'private judgment' in Pomfret himself is + made no heroic virtue but simply an integral part of the love of + truth. As to Grace she is too good to be interesting, I am afraid—and + people say of her more than she expresses—and as to 'generosity,' she + could not do otherwise in the last scenes. +</p> +<p> + But I will not tell you the story after all. +</p> +<p> + At the beginning of this letter I meant to write just one page; but my + generosity is like Grace's, and could not help itself. There were the + letters to write of, and the verses! and then, you know, 'femme qui + parle' never has done. <i>Let</i> me hear! and I will be as brisk as a + monument next time for variety. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, November 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How good and kind to send me these books! (The letter I say nothing + of, according to convention: if I wrote down 'best and kindest' ... + oh, what poorest words!) I shall tell you all about 'Pomfret,' be + sure. Chorley talked of it, as we walked homewards together last + night,—modestly and well, and spoke of having given away two copies + only ... to his mother one, and the other to—Miss Barrett, and 'she + seemed interested in the life of it, entered into his purpose in it,' + and I listened to it all, loving Chorley for his loveability which is + considerable at other times, and saying to myself what might run + better in the child's couplet—'Not more than others I deserve, Though + God has given me more'!—Given me the letter which expresses surprise + that I shall feel these blanks between the days when I see you longer + and longer! So am <i>I</i> surprised—that I should have mentioned so + obvious a matter at all; or leave unmentioned a hundred others its + correlatives which I cannot conceive you to be ignorant of, you! When + I spread out my riches before me, and think <i>what</i> the hour and more + means that you endow one with, I <i>do</i>—not to say <i>could</i>—I <i>do</i> form + resolutions, and say to myself—'If next time I am bidden stay away a + <SPAN class="sc-ex">fortnight</span>, I will not reply by a word beyond the grateful assent.' I + <i>do</i>, God knows, lay up in my heart these priceless treasures,—shall + I tell you? I never in my life kept a journal, a register of sights, + or fancies, or feelings; in my last travel I put down on a slip of + paper a few dates, that I might remember in England, on such a day I + was on Vesuvius, in Pompeii, at Shelley's grave; all that should be + kept in memory is, with <i>me</i>, best left to the brain's own process. + But I have, from the first, recorded the date and the duration of + every visit to you; the numbers of minutes you have given me ... and I + put them together till they make ... nearly two days now; + four-and-twenty-hour-long-days, that I have been <i>by you</i>—and I enter + the room determining to get up and go sooner ... and I go away into + the light street repenting that I went so soon by I don't know how + many minutes—for, love, what is it all, this love for you, but an + earnest desiring to include you in myself, if that might be; to feel + you in my very heart and hold you there for ever, through all chance + and earthly changes! +</p> +<p> + There, I had better leave off; the words! +</p> +<p> + I was very glad to find myself with your brother yesterday; I like him + very much and mean to get a friend in him—(to supply the loss of my + friend ... Miss Barrett—which is gone, the friendship, so gone!) But + I did not ask after you because I heard Moxon do it. Now of Landor's + verses: I got a note from Forster yesterday telling me that he, too, + had received a copy ... so that there is no injunction to be secret. + So I got a copy for dear Mr. Kenyon, and, lo! what comes! I send the + note to make you smile! I shall reply that I felt in duty bound to + apprise you; as I did. You will observe that I go to that too facile + gate of his on Tuesday, <i>my day</i> ... from your house directly. The + worst is that I have got entangled with invitations already, and must + go out again, <i>hating</i> it, to more than one place. +</p> +<p> + I am <i>very</i> well—quite well; yes, dearest! The pain is quite gone; + and the inconvenience, hard on its trace. You will write to me again, + will you not? And be as brief as your heart lets you, to me who hoard + up your words and get remote and imperfect ideas of what ... shall it + be written?... anger at you could mean, when I see a line blotted out; + a <i>second-thoughted</i> finger-tip rapidly put forth upon one of my gold + pieces! +</p> +<p> + I rather think if Warburton reviews me it will be in the <i>Quarterly</i>, + which I know he writes for. Hanmer is a very sculpturesque passionless + high-minded and amiable man ... this coldness, as you see it, is part + of him. I like his poems, I think, better than you—'the Sonnets,' do + you know them? Not 'Fra Cipolla.' See what is here, since you will not + let me have only you to look at—this is Landor's first + opinion—expressed to Forster—see the date! and last of all, see me + and know me, beloved! May God bless you! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon came yesterday—and do you know when he took out those + verses and spoke his preface and I understood what was to follow, I + had a temptation from my familiar Devil not to say I had read them + before—I had the temptation strong and clear. For he (Mr. K.) told me + that your sister let him see them—. +</p> +<p> + But no—My 'vade retro' prevailed, and I spoke the truth and shamed + the devil and surprised Mr. Kenyon besides, as I could observe. Not an + observation did he make till he was just going away half an hour + afterwards, and then he said rather dryly ... 'And now may I ask how + long ago it was when you first read these verses?—was it a fortnight + ago?' It was better, I think, that I should not have made a mystery of + such a simple thing, ... and yet I felt half vexed with myself and + with him besides. But the verses,—how he praised them! more than I + thought of doing ... as verses—though there is beauty and music and + all that ought to be. Do you see clearly now that the latter lines + refer to the combination in you,—the qualities over and above those + held in common with Chaucer? And I have heard this morning from two or + three of the early readers of the <i>Chronicle</i> (I never care to see it + till the evening) that the verses are there—so that my wishes have + fulfilled themselves <i>there</i> at least—strangely, for wishes of mine + ... which generally 'go by contraries' as the soothsayers declare of + dreams. How kind of you to send me the fragment to Mr. Forster! and + how I like to read it. Was the Hebrew yours <i>then</i> ... <i>written then</i>, + I mean ... or written <i>now</i>? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon told me that you were to dine with him on Tuesday, and I + took for granted, at first hearing, that you would come on Wednesday + perhaps to me—and afterwards I saw the possibility of the two ends + being joined without much difficulty. Still, I was not sure, before + your letter came, how it might be. +</p> +<p> + That you really are better is the best news of all—thank you for + telling me. It will be wise not to go out <i>too</i> much—'aequam servare + mentem' as Landor quotes, ... in this as in the rest. Perhaps that + worst pain was a sort of crisis ... the sharp turn of the road about + to end ... oh, I do trust it may be so. +</p> +<p> + Mr. K. wrote to Landor to the effect that it was not because he (Mr. + K.) held you in affection, nor because the verses expressed critically + the opinion entertained of you by all who could judge, nor because + they praised a book with which his own name was associated ... but for + the abstract beauty of those verses ... for <i>that</i> reason he could not + help naming them to Mr. Landor. All of which was repeated to me + yesterday. +</p> +<p> + Also I heard of you from George, who admired you—admired you ... as + if you were a chancellor in <i>posse</i>, a great lawyer in <i>esse</i>—and + then he thought you ... what he never could think a lawyer ... + '<i>unassuming</i>.' And <i>you</i> ... you are so kind! Only <i>that</i> makes me + think bitterly what I have thought before, but cannot write to-day. +</p> +<p> + It was good-natured of Mr. Chorley to send me a copy of his book, and + he sending so few—very! George who admires <i>you</i>, does not tolerate + Mr. Chorley ... (did I tell ever?) declares that the affectation is + 'bad,' and that there is a dash of vulgarity ... which I positively + refuse to believe, and <i>should</i>, I fancy, though face to face with the + most vainglorious of waistcoats. How can there be vulgarity even of + manners, with so much mental refinement? I never could believe in + those combinations of contradictions. +</p> +<p> + 'An obvious matter,' you think! as obvious, as your 'green hill' ... + which I cannot see. For the rest ... my thought upon your 'great + <i>fact</i>' of the 'two days,' is quite different from yours ... for I + think directly, 'So little'! so dreadfully little! What shallow earth + for a deep root! What can be known of me in that time? 'So <i>there</i>, is + the only good, you see, that comes from making calculations on a slip + of paper! It is not and it cannot come to good.' I would rather look + at my seventy-five letters—there is room to breathe in them. And this + is my idea (<i>ecce</i>!) of monumental brevity—and <i>hic jacet</i> at last +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, November 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But a word to-night, my love—for my head aches a little,—I had to + write a long letter to my friend at New Zealand, and now I want to sit + and think of you and get well—but I must not quite lose the word I + counted on. +</p> +<p> + So, <i>that</i> way you will take my two days and turn them against me? + <i>Oh, you!</i> Did I say the 'root' had been striking then, or rather, + that the seeds, whence the roots take leisure and grow, <i>they</i> had + been planted then—and might not a good heart and hand drop acorns + enough to grow up into a complete Dodona-grove,—when the very rook, + say farmers, hides and forgets whole navies of ship-wood one day to + be, in his summer storing-journeys? But this shall do—I am not going + to prove what <i>may</i> be, when here it <i>is</i>, to my everlasting + happiness. +</p> +<p> + —And 'I am kind'—there again! Do I not know what you mean by that? + Well it is some comfort that you make all even in some degree, and + take from my faculties here what you give them, spite of my + protesting, in other directions. So I could not when I first saw you + admire you very much, and wish for your friendship, and be willing to + give you mine, and desirous of any opportunity of serving you, + benefiting you; I could not think the finding myself in a position to + feel this, just this and no more, a sufficiently fortunate event ... + but I must needs get up, or imitate, or ... what is it you fancy I do? + ... an utterly distinct, unnecessary, inconsequential regard for you, + which should, when it got too hard for shamming at the week's + end,—should simply spoil, in its explosion and departure, all the + real and sufficing elements of an honest life-long attachment and + affections! that I should do this, and think it a piece of kindness + does.... +</p> +<p> + Now, I'll tell you what it <i>does</i> deserve, and what it shall get. Give + me, dearest beyond expression, what I have always dared to think I + would ask you for ... one day! Give me ... wait—for your own sake, + not mine who never, never dream of being worth such a gift ... but for + your own sense of justice, and to <i>say</i>, so as my heart shall hear, + that you were wrong and are no longer so, give me so much of you—all + precious that you are—as may be given in a lock of your hair—I will + live and die with it, and with the memory of you—this <i>at</i> the + <i>worst</i>! If you give me what I beg,—shall I say next Tuesday ... when + I leave you, I will not speak a word. If you do not, I will not think + you unjust, for all my light words, but I will pray you to wait and + remember me one day—when the power to deserve more may be greater ... + never the will. God supplies all things: may he bless you, beloved! So + I can but pray, kissing your hand. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + Now pardon me, dearest, for what is written ... what I cannot cancel, + for the love's sake that it grew from. +</p> +<p> + The <i>Chronicle</i> was through Moxon, I believe—Landor had sent the + verses to Forster at the same time as to me, yet they do not appear. I + never in my life less cared about people's praise or blame for myself, + and never more for its influence on <i>other people</i> than now—I would + stand as high as I could in the eyes of all about you—yet not, after + all, at poor Chorley's expense whom your brother, I am sure, + unintentionally, is rather hasty in condemning; I have told you of my + own much rasher opinion and how I was ashamed and sorry when I + corrected it after. C. is of a different species to your brother, + differently trained, looking different ways—and for some of the + peculiarities that strike at first sight, C. himself gives a good + reason to the enquirer on better acquaintance. For 'Vulgarity'—NO! + But your kind brother will alter his view, I know, on further + acquaintance ... and,—woe's me—will find that 'assumption's' pertest + self would be troubled to exercise its quality at such a house as Mr. + K.'s, where every symptom of a proper claim is met half way and helped + onward far too readily. +</p> +<p> + Good night, now. Am I not yours—are you not mine? And can that make + <i>you</i> happy too? +</p> +<p> + Bless you once more and for ever. +</p> +<p> + That scrap of Landor's being for no other eye than mine—I made the + foolish comment, that there was no blotting out—made it some four or + five years ago, when I could read what I only guess at now, through my + idle opening the hand and letting the caught bird go—but there used + to be a real satisfaction to me in writing those grand Hebrew + characters—the noble languages! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, November 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But what unlawful things have I said about 'kindness'? I did not mean + any harm—no, indeed! And as to thinking ... as to having ever + thought, that you could 'imitate' (can this word be 'imitate'?) an + unfelt feeling or a feeling unsupposed to be felt ... I may solemnly + assure you that I never, never did so. 'Get up'—'imitate'!! But it + was the contrary ... <i>all</i> the contrary! From the beginning, now <i>did</i> + I not believe you too much? Did I not believe you even in your + contradiction of yourself ... in your <i>yes</i> and <i>no</i> on the same + subject, ... and take the world to be turning round backwards and + myself to have been shut up here till I grew mad, ... rather than + disbelieve you either way? Well!—You know it as well as I can tell + you, and I will not, any more. If I have been 'wrong,' it was not <i>so</i> + ... nor indeed <i>then</i> ... it is not <i>so</i>, though it is <i>now</i>, perhaps. +</p> +<p> + Therefore ... but wait! I never gave away what you ask me to give + <i>you</i>, to a human being, except my nearest relatives and once or twice + or thrice to female friends, ... never, though reproached for it; and + it is just three weeks since I said last to an asker that I was 'too + great a prude for such a thing'! it was best to anticipate the + accusation!—And, prude or not, I could not—I never + could—<i>something</i> would not let me. And now ... what am I to do ... + 'for my own sake and not yours?' Should you have it, or not? Why I + suppose ... <i>yes</i>. I suppose that 'for my own sense of justice and in + order to show that I was wrong' (which is wrong—you wrote a wrong + word there ... 'right,' you meant!) 'to show that I was <i>right</i> and am + no longer so,' ... I suppose you must have it, 'Oh, <i>You</i>,' ... who + have your way in everything! Which does not mean ... Oh, vous, qui + avez toujours raison—far from it. +</p> +<p> + Also ... which does not mean that I shall give you what you ask for, + <i>to-morrow</i>,—because I shall not—and one of my conditions is (with + others to follow) that <i>not a word be said to-morrow</i>, you understand. + Some day I will send it perhaps ... as you <i>knew</i> I should ... ah, as + you knew I should ... notwithstanding that 'getting up' ... that + 'imitation' ... of humility: as you knew <i>too</i> well I should! +</p> +<p> + Only I will not teaze you as I might perhaps; and now that your + headache has begun again—the headache again: the worse than headache! + See what good my wishes do! And try to understand that if I speak of + my being 'wrong' now in relation to you ... of my being right before, + and wrong now, ... I mean wrong for your sake, and not for mine ... + wrong in letting you come out into the desert here to me, you whose + place is by the waters of Damascus. But I need not tell you over + again—you <i>know</i>. May God bless you till to-morrow and past it for + ever. Mr. Kenyon brought me your note yesterday to read about the + 'order in the button-hole'—ah!—or 'oh, <i>you</i>,' may I not re-echo? It + enrages me to think of Mr. Forster; publishing too as he does, at a + moment, the very sweepings of Landor's desk! Is the motive of the + reticence to be looked for somewhere among the cinders?—Too bad it + is. So, till to-morrow! and you shall not be 'kind' any more. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + But how, 'a <i>foolish</i> comment'? Good and true rather! And I admired + the <i>writing</i><a href="#note-21"><b>21</b></a> ... worthy of the reeds of Jordan! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, November 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + How are you? and Miss Bayley's visit yesterday, and Mr. K.'s + to-day—(He told me he should see you this morning—and <i>I</i> shall pass + close by, having to be in town and near you,—but only the thought + will reach you and be with you—) tell me all this, dearest. +</p> +<p> + How kind Mr. Kenyon was last night and the day before! He neither + wonders nor is much vexed, I dare believe—and I write now these few + words to say so—My heart is set on next Thursday, remember ... and + the prize of Saturday! Oh, dearest, believe for truth's sake, that I + <SPAN class="sc-ex">would</span> most frankly own to any fault, any imperfection in the beginning + of my love of you; in the pride and security of this present stage it + has reached—I <i>would</i> gladly learn, by the full lights now, what an + insufficient glimmer it grew from, ... but there <i>never has been + change</i>, only development and increased knowledge and strengthened + feeling—I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and + become yours for ever. God bless you, and make me thankful! +</p> +<p> + And you <i>will</i> give me <i>that</i>? What shall save me from wreck: but + truly? How must I feel to you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, November 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Now you must not blame me—you must not. To make a promise is one + thing, and to keep it, quite another: and the conclusion you see 'as + from a tower.' Suppose I had an oath in heaven somewhere ... near to + 'coma Berenices,' ... never to give you what you ask for! ... would + not such an oath be stronger than a mere half promise such as I sent + you a few hours ago? Admit that it would—and that I am not to blame + for saying now ... (listen!) that I <i>never can</i> nor <i>will give you + this thing</i>;—only that I will, if you please, exchange it for another + thing—you understand. <i>I</i> too will avoid being 'assuming'; I will not + pretend to be generous, no, nor 'kind.' It shall be pure merchandise + or nothing at all. Therefore determine!—remembering always how our + 'ars poetica,' after Horace, recommends 'dare et petere + vicissim'—which is making a clatter of pedantry to take advantage of + the noise ... because perhaps I ought to be ashamed to say this to + you, and perhaps I <i>am</i>! ... yet say it none the less. +</p> +<p> + And ... less lightly ... if you have right and reason on your side, + may I not have a little on mine too? And shall I not care, do you + think?... Think! +</p> +<p> + Then there is another reason for me, entirely mine. You have come to + me as a dream comes, as the best dreams come ... dearest—and so there + is need to me of 'a sign' to know the difference between dream and + vision—and <i>that</i> is my completest reason, my own reason—you have + none like it; none. A ticket to know the horn-gate from the ivory, ... + ought I not to have it? Therefore send it to me before I send you + anything, and if possible by that Lewisham post which was the most + frequent bringer of your letters until these last few came, and which + reaches me at eight in the evening when all the world is at dinner and + my solitude most certain. Everything is so still then, that I have + heard the footsteps of a letter of yours ten doors off ... or more, + perhaps. Now beware of imagining from this which I say, that there is + a strict police for my correspondence ... (it is not so—) nor that I + do not like hearing from you at any and every hour: it <i>is</i> so. Only I + would make the smoothest and sweetest of roads for ... and you + <i>understand</i>, and do not <i>imagine</i> beyond. +</p> +<p> + <i>Tuesday evening.</i>—What is written is written, ... all the above: and + it is forbidden to me to write a word of what I could write down here + ... forbidden for good reasons. So I am silent on <i>conditions</i> ... + those being ... first ... that you never do such things again ... no, + you must not and shall not.... I <i>will not let it be</i>: and secondly, + that you try to hear the unspoken words, and understand how your gift + will remain with me while <i>I</i> remain ... they need not be said—just + as <i>it</i> need not have been so beautiful, for that. The beauty drops + 'full fathom five' into the deep thought which covers it. So I study + my Machiavelli to contrive the possibility of wearing it, without + being put to the question violently by all the curiosity of all my + brothers;—the questions 'how' ... 'what' ... 'why' ... put round and + edgeways. They are famous, some of them, for asking questions. I say + to them—'well: how many more questions?' And now ... for <i>me</i>—<i>have</i> + I said a word?—<i>have</i> I not been obedient? And by rights and in + justice, there should have been a reproach ... if there could! + Because, friendship or more than friendship, Pisa or no Pisa, it was + unnecessary altogether from you to me ... but I have done, and you + shall not be teazed. +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday.</i>—Only ... I persist in the view of the <i>other</i> question. + This will not do for the '<i>sign</i>,' ... this, which, so far from being + qualified for disproving a dream, is the beautiful image of a dream in + itself ... <i>so</i> beautiful: and with the very shut eyelids, and the + "little folding of the hands to sleep." You see at a glance it will + not do. And so— +</p> +<p> + Just as one might be interrupted while telling a fairy-tale, ... in + the midst of the "and so's" ... just <i>so</i>, I have been interrupted by + the coming in of Miss Bayley, and here she has been sitting for nearly + two hours, from twelve to two nearly, and I like her, do you know. Not + only she talks well, which was only a thing to expect, but she seems + to <i>feel</i> ... to have great sensibility—<i>and</i> her kindness to me ... + kindness of manner and words and expression, all together ... quite + touched me.—I did not think of her being so loveable a person. Yet it + was kind and generous, her proposition about Italy; (did I tell you + how she made it to me through Mr. Kenyon long ago—when I was a mere + stranger to her?) the proposition to go there with me herself. It was + quite a grave, earnest proposal of hers—which was one of the reasons + why I could not even <i>wish</i> not to see her to-day. Because you see, it + was a tremendous degree of experimental generosity, to think of going + to Italy by sea with an invalid stranger, "seule <i>à</i> seule." And she + was wholly in earnest, wholly. Is there not good in the world after + all? +</p> +<p> + Tell me how you are, for I am not at ease about you—You were not well + even yesterday, I thought. If this goes on ... but it mustn't go + on—oh, it must not. May God bless us more! +</p> +<p> + Do not fancy, in the meantime, that you stay here 'too long' for any + observation that can be made. In the first place there is nobody to + 'observe'—everybody is out till seven, except the one or two who will + not observe if I tell them not. My sisters are glad when you come, + because it is a gladness of mine, ... they observe. I have a great + deal of liberty, to have so many chains; we all have, in this house: + and though the liberty has melancholy motives, it saves some daily + torment, and <i>I</i> do not complain of it for one. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you! Do not forget me. Say how you are. What good can I + do you with all my thoughts, when you keep unwell? See!—Facts are + against fancies. As when I would not have the lamp lighted yesterday + because it seemed to make it later, and you proved directly that it + would not make it <i>earlier</i>, by getting up and going away! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Wholly and ever your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, November 28, 1845.]<b><a href="#note-22">22</a></b> +</p> +<p> + Take it, dearest; what I am forced to think you mean—and take <i>no + more</i> with it—for I gave all to give long ago—I am all yours—and + now, <i>mine</i>; give me <i>mine</i> to be happy with! +</p> +<p> + You will have received my note of yesterday.—I am glad you are + satisfied with Miss Bayley, whom I, too, thank ... that is, sympathize + with, ... (not wonder at, though)—for her intention.... Well, may it + all be for best—here or at Pisa, you are my blessing and life. +</p> +<p> + ... How all considerate you are, <i>you</i> that are the kind, kind one! + The post arrangement I will remember—to-day, for instance, will this + reach you at 8? I shall be with you then, in thought. 'Forget + you!'—<i>What</i> does that mean, dearest? +</p> +<p> + And I might have stayed longer and you let me go. What does <i>that</i> + mean, also tell me? Why, I make up my mind to go, always, like a man, + and praise myself as I get through it—as when one plunges into the + cold water—<SPAN class="sc-ex">only</span> ... ah, <i>that</i> too is no more a merit than any other + thing I do ... there is the reward, the last and best! Or is it the + 'lure'? +</p> +<p> + I would not be ashamed of my soul if it might be shown you,—it is + wholly grateful, conscious of you. +</p> +<p> + But another time, do not let me wrong myself <i>so</i>! Say, 'one minute + more.' +</p> +<p> + On Monday?—I am <i>much</i> better—and, having got free from an + engagement for Saturday, shall stay quietly here and think the post + never intending to come—for you will not let me wait longer? +</p> +<p> + Shall I dare write down a grievance of my heart, and not offend you? + Yes, trusting in the right of my love—you tell me, sweet, here in the + letter, 'I do not look so well'—and sometimes, I 'look better' ... + <i>how do you know</i>? When I first saw you—<i>I saw your eyes</i>—since + then, <i>you</i>, it should appear, see mine—but I only <i>know</i> yours are + there, and have to use that memory as if one carried dried flowers + about when fairly inside the garden-enclosure. And while I resolve, + and hesitate, and resolve again to complain of this—(kissing your + foot ... not boldly complaining, nor rudely)—while I have this on my + mind, on my heart, ever since that May morning ... can it be? +</p> +<p> + —No, nothing <i>can be</i> wrong now—you will never call me 'kind' again, + in that sense, you promise! Nor think 'bitterly' of my kindness, that + word! +</p> +<p> + Shall I <i>see</i> you on Monday? +</p> +<p> + God bless you my dearest—I see her now—and <i>here</i> and <i>now</i> the eyes + open, wide <i>enough</i>, and I will kiss them—<i>how</i> gratefully! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 1, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + It comes at eight o'clock—the post says eight ... <i>I</i> say nearer half + past eight ... it <i>comes</i>—and I thank you, thank you, as I can. Do + you remember the purple lock of a king on which hung the fate of a + city? <i>I</i> do! And I need not in conscience—because this one here did + not come to me by treason—'ego et rex meus,' on the contrary, do + fairly give and take. +</p> +<p> + I meant at first only to send you what is in the ring ... which, by + the way, will not fit you I know—(not certainly in the finger which + it was meant for ...) as it would not Napoleon before you—but can + easily be altered to the right size.... I meant at first to send you + only what was in the ring: but your fashion is best so you shall have + it both ways. Now don't say a word on Monday ... nor at all. As for + the ring, recollect that I am forced to feel blindfold into the outer + world, and take what is nearest ... by chance, not choice ... or it + might have been better—a little better—perhaps. The <i>best</i> of it is + that it's the colour of your blue flowers. Now you will not say a + word—I trust to you. +</p> +<p> + It is enough that you should have said these others, I think. Now <i>is</i> + it just of you? isn't it hard upon me? And if the charge is true, + whose fault is it, pray? I have been ashamed and vexed with myself + fifty times for being so like a little girl, ... for seeming to have + 'affectations'; and all in vain: 'it was stronger than I,' as the + French say. And for <i>you</i> to complain! As if Haroun Alraschid after + cutting off a head, should complain of the want of an + obeisance!—Well!—I smile notwithstanding. Nobody can help + smiling—both for my foolishness which is great, I confess, though + somewhat exaggerated in your statement—(because if it was quite as + bad as you say, you know, I never should have <i>seen you</i> ... and <i>I + have</i>!) and also for yours ... because you take such a very + preposterously wrong way for overcoming anybody's shyness. Do you + know, I have laughed ... really laughed at your letter. No—it has not + been so bad. I have seen you at every visit, as well as I could with + both eyes wide open—only that by a supernatural influence they won't + stay open with <i>you</i> as they are used to do with other people ... so + now I tell you. And for the rest I promise nothing at all—as how can + I, when it is quite beyond my control—and you have not improved my + capabilities ... do you think you have? Why what nonsense we have come + to—we, who ought to be 'talking Greek!' said Mr. Kenyon. +</p> +<p> + Yes—he came and talked of you, and told me how you had been speaking + of ... me; and I have been thinking how I should have been proud of it + a year ago, and how I could half scold you for it now. Ah yes—and Mr. + Kenyon told me that you had spoken exaggerations—such + exaggerations!—Now should there not be some scolding ... some? +</p> +<p> + But how did you expect Mr. Kenyon to 'wonder' at <i>you</i>, or be 'vexed' + with <i>you</i>? That would have been strange surely. You are and always + have been a chief favourite in that quarter ... appreciated, praised, + loved, I think. +</p> +<p> + While I write, a letter from America is put into my hands, and having + read it through with shame and confusion of face ... not able to help + a smile though notwithstanding, ... I send it to you to show how you + have made me behave!—to say nothing of my other offences to the kind + people at Boston—and to a stray gentleman in Philadelphia who is to + perform a pilgrimage next year, he says, ... to visit the Holy Land + and your E.B.B. I was naughty enough to take <i>that</i> letter to be a + circular ... for the address of various 'Europ<i>a</i>ians.' In any case + ... just see how I have behaved! and if it has not been worse than ... + not opening one's eyes!—Judge. Really and gravely I am ashamed—I + mean as to Mr. Mathews, who has been an earnest, kind friend to + me—and I do mean to behave better. I say <i>that</i> to prevent your + scolding, you know. And think of Mr. Poe, with that great Roman + justice of his (if not rather American!), dedicating a book to one and + abusing one in the preface of the same. He wrote a review of me in + just that spirit—the two extremes of laudation and reprehension, + folded in on one another. You would have thought that it had been + written by a friend and foe, each stark mad with love and hate, and + writing the alternate paragraphs—a most curious production indeed. +</p> +<p> + And here I shall end. I have been waiting ... waiting for what does + not come ... the ring ... sent to have the hair put in; but it won't + come (now) until too late for the post, and you must hear from me + before Monday ... you ought to have heard to-day. It has not been my + fault—I have waited. Oh these people—who won't remember that it is + possible to be out of patience! So I send you my letter now ... and + what is in the paper now ... and the rest, you shall have after + Monday. And you <i>will not say a word</i> ... not then ... not at all!—I + trust you. And may God bless you. +</p> +<p> + If ever you care less for me—I do not say it in distrust of you ... I + trust you wholly—but you are a man, and free to care less, ... and if + ever you <i>do</i> ... why in that case you will destroy, burn, ... do all + but send back ... enough is said for you to understand. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. You are <i>best</i> to me—best ... as I see ... in the + world—and so, dearest aright to +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Finished on Saturday evening. Oh—this thread of silk—And to post!! + After all you must wait till Tuesday. I have no silk within reach and + shall miss the post. Do forgive me. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Evening. +</p> +<p> + This is the mere postscript to the letter I have just sent away. By a + few minutes too late, comes what I have all day been waiting for, ... + and besides (now it is just too late!) now I may have a skein of silk + if I please, to make that knot with, ... for want of which, two locks + meant for you, have been devoted to the infernal gods already ... + fallen into a tangle and thrown into the fire ... and all the hair of + my head might have followed, for I was losing my patience and temper + fast, ... and the post to boot. So wisely I shut my letter, (after + unwisely having driven everything to the last moment!)—and now I have + silk to tie fast with ... to tie a 'nodus' ... 'dignus' of the + celestial interposition—and a new packet shall be ready to go to you + directly. +</p> +<p> + At last I remember to tell you that the first letter you had from me + this week, was forgotten, (not by <i>me</i>) forgotten, and detained, so, + from the post—a piece of carelessness which Wilson came to confess to + me too frankly for me to grumble as I should have done otherwise. +</p> +<p> + For the staying longer, I did not mean to say you were wrong not to + stay. In the first place you were keeping your father 'in a maze,' as + you said yourself—and then, even without that, I never know what + o'clock it is ... never. Mr. Kenyon tells me that I must live in a + dream—which I do—time goes ... seeming to go round rather than go + forward. The watch I have, broke its spring two years ago, and there I + leave it in the drawer—and the clocks all round strike out of + hearing, or at best, when the wind brings the sound, one upon another + in a confusion. So you know more of time than I do or can. +</p> +<p> + Till Monday then! I send the 'Ricordi' to take care of the rest ... of + mine. It is a touching story—and there is an impracticable nobleness + from end to end in the spirit of it. How <i>slow</i> (to the ear and mind) + that Italian rhetoric is! a language for dreamers and declaimers. Yet + Dante made it for action, and Machiavelli's prose can walk and strike + as well as float and faint. +</p> +<p> + The ring is smaller than I feared at first, and may perhaps— +</p> +<p> + Now you will not say a word. My excuse is that you had nothing to + remember me by, while I had this and this and this and this ... how + much too much! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">If I could be too much</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 2, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I was happy, so happy before! But I am happier and richer now. My + love—no words could serve here, but there is life before us, and to + the end of it the vibration now struck will extend—I will live and + die with your beautiful ring, your beloved hair—comforting me, + blessing me. +</p> +<p> + Let me write to-morrow—when I think on all you have been and are to + me, on the wonder of it and the deliciousness, it makes the paper + words that come seem vainer than ever—To-morrow I will write. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, my own, my precious— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am all your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + I have thought again, and believe it will be best to select the finger + <i>you</i> intended ... as the alteration will be simpler, I find; and one + is less liable to observation and comment. +</p> +<p> + Was not that Mr. Kenyon last evening? And did he ask, or hear, or say + anything? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, December 3, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + See, dearest, what the post brings me this minute! Now, is it not a + good omen, a pleasant inconscious prophecy of what is to be? Be it + well done, or badly—there are you, leading me up and onward, in his + review as everywhere, at every future time! And our names will go + together—be read together. In itself this is nothing to <i>you</i>, dear + poet—but the unexpectedness, unintended significance of it has + pleased me very much—<i>does</i> it not please you?—I thought I was to + figure in that cold <i>Quarterly</i> all by myself, (for he writes for + it)—but here you are close by me; it cannot but be for good. He has + no knowledge whatever that I am even a friend of yours. Say you are + pleased! +</p> +<p> + There was no writing yesterday for me—nor will there be much to-day. + In some moods, you know, I turn and take a thousand new views of what + you say ... and find fault with you to your surprise—at others, I + rest on you, and feel <i>all</i> well, all <i>best</i> ... now, for one + instance, even that phrase of the <i>possibility</i> 'and what is to + follow,'—even <i>that</i> I cannot except against—I am happy, contented; + too well, too prodigally blessed to be even able to murmur just + sufficiently loud to get, in addition to it all, a sweetest stopping + of the mouth! I will say quietly and becomingly 'Yes—I do promise + you'—yet it is some solace to—No—I will <i>not</i> even couple the + promise with an adjuration that you, at the same time, see that they + care for me properly at Hanwell Asylum ... the best by all accounts: + yet I feel so sure of <i>you</i>, so safe and confident in you! If any of + it had been <i>my</i> work, my own ... distrust and foreboding had pursued + me from the beginning; but all is <i>yours</i>—you crust me round with + gold and jewelry like the wood of a sceptre; and why should you + transfer your own work? Wood enough to choose from in the first + instance, but the choice once made!... So I rest on you, for life, for + death, beloved—beside you do stand, in my solemn belief, the direct + miraculous gift of God to me—that is my solemn belief; may I be + thankful! +</p> +<p> + I am anxious to hear from you ... when am I not?—but <i>not</i> before the + American letter is written and sent. Is that done? And who was the + visitor on Monday—and if &c. <i>what</i> did he remark?—And what is + right or wrong with Saturday—is it to be mine? +</p> +<p> + Bless you, dearest—now and for ever—words cannot say how much I am + your own. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, December 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + No Mr. Kenyon after all—not yesterday, not to-day; and the knock at + the door belonged perhaps to the post, which brought me a kind letter + from Mrs. Jameson to ask how I was, and if she might come—but she + won't come on Saturday.... I shall 'provide'—she may as well (and + better) come on a free day. On the other side, are you sure that Mr. + Procter may not stretch out his hand and seize on Saturday (he was to + dine with you, you said), or that some new engagement may not start up + suddenly in the midst of it? I trust to you, in such a case, to alter + <i>our</i> arrangement, without a second thought. Monday stands close by, + remember, and there's a Saturday to follow Monday ... and I should + understand at a word, or apart from a word. +</p> +<p> + Just as <i>you</i> understand how to 'take me with guile,' when you tell me + that anything in me can have any part in making you happy ... you, who + can say such words and call them 'vain words.' Ah, well! If I only + knew certainly, ... more certainly than the thing may be known by + either me or you, ... that nothing in me could have any part in making + you <i>un</i>happy, ... ah, would it not be enough ... <i>that</i> knowledge ... + to content me, to overjoy me? but <i>that</i> lies too high and out of + reach, you see, and one can't hope to get at it except by the ladder + Jacob saw, and which an archangel helped to hide away behind the gate + of Heaven afterwards. +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday.</i>—In the meantime I had a letter from you yesterday, and + am promised another to-day. How ... I was going to say 'kind' and + pull down the thunders ... how <i>un</i>kind ... will <i>that</i> do? ... how + good you are to me—how dear you must be! Dear—dearest—if I feel + that you love me, can I help it if, without any other sort of certain + knowledge, the world grows lighter round me? being but a mortal woman, + can I help it? no—certainly. +</p> +<p> + I comfort myself by thinking sometimes that I can at least understand + you, ... comprehend you in what you are and in what you possess and + combine; and that, if doing this better than others who are better + otherwise than I, I am, so far, worthier of the ... I mean that to + understand you is something, and that I account it something in my own + favour ... mine. +</p> +<p> + Yet when you tell me that I ought to know some things, though untold, + you are wrong, and speak what is impossible. My imagination sits by + the roadside <span title="apedilos">απεδιλος</span> like the startled sea nymph in + Æschylus, but never dares to put one unsandalled foot, unbidden, on a + certain tract of ground—never takes a step there unled! and never (I + write the simple truth) even as the alternative of the probability of + your ceasing to care for me, have I touched (untold) on the + possibility of your caring <i>more</i> for me ... never! That you should + <i>continue</i> to care, was the utmost of what I saw in that direction. + So, when you spoke of a 'strengthened feeling,' judge how I listened + with my heart—judge! +</p> +<p> + 'Luria' is very great. You will avenge him with the sympathies of the + world; that, I foresee.... And for the rest, it is a magnanimity which + grows and grows, and which will, of a worldly necessity, fall by its + own weight at last; nothing less being possible. The scene with + Tiburzio and the end of the act with its great effects, are more + pathetic than professed pathos. When I come to criticise, it will be + chiefly on what I take to be a little occasional flatness in the + versification, which you may remove if you please, by knotting up a + few lines here and there. But I shall write more of 'Luria,'—and + well remember in the meanwhile, that you wanted smoothness, you said. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. I shall have the letter to-night, I think gladly. + Yes,—I thought of the greater safety from 'comment'—it is best in + every way. +</p> +<p> + I lean on you and trust to you, and am always, as to one who is all to + me, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, December 4, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Why of course I am pleased—I should have been pleased last year, for + the vanity's sake of being reviewed in your company. Now, as far as + that vice of vanity goes ... shall I tell you?... I would infinitely + prefer to see you set before the public in your own right solitude, + and supremacy, apart from me or any one else, ... this, as far as my + vice of vanity goes, ... and because, vainer I am of my poet than of + my poems ... <i>pour cause</i>. But since, according to the <i>Quarterly</i> + régime, you were to be not apart but with somebody of my degree, I am + glad, pleased, that it should be with myself:—and since I was to be + there at all, I am pleased, very much pleased that it should be with + <i>you</i>,—oh, of course I am pleased!—I am pleased that the 'names + should be read together' as you say, ... and am happily safe from the + apprehension of that ingenious idea of yours about 'my leading <i>you</i>' + &c. ... quite happily safe from the apprehension of that idea's + occurring to any mind in the world, except just your own. Now if I + 'find fault' with you for writing down such an extravagance, such an + ungainly absurdity, (oh, I shall abuse it just as I shall choose!) + <i>can</i> it be 'to your surprise?' <i>can</i> it? Ought you to say such + things, when in the first place they are unfit in themselves and + inapplicable, and in the second place, abominable in my eyes? The + qualification for Hanwell Asylum is different peradventure from what + you take it to be—we had better not examine it too nearly. You never + will say such words again? It is your promise to me? Not those + words—and not any in their likeness. +</p> +<p> + Also ... nothing is <i>my</i> work ... if you please! What an omen you take + in calling anything my work! If it is my work, woe on it—for + everything turns to evil which I touch. Let it be God's work and + yours, and I may take breath and wait in hope—and indeed I exclaim to + myself about the miracle of it far more even than you can do. It seems + to me (as I say over and over ... I say it to my own thoughts + oftenest) it seems to me still a dream how you came here at all, ... + the very machinery of it seems miraculous. Why did I receive you and + only you? Can I tell? no, not a word. +</p> +<p> + Last year I had such an escape of seeing Mr. Horne; and in this way it + was. He was going to Germany, he said, for an indefinite time, and + took the trouble of begging me to receive him for ten minutes before + he went. I answered with my usual 'no,' like a wild Indian—whereupon + he wrote me a letter so expressive of mortification and vexation ... + 'mortification' was one of the words used, I remember, ... that I grew + ashamed of myself and told him to come any day (of the last five or + six days he had to spare) between two and five. Well!—he never came. + Either he was overcome with work and engagements of various sorts and + had not a moment, (which was his way of explaining the matter and + quite true I dare say) or he was vexed and resolved on punishing me + for my caprices. If the latter was the motive, I cannot call the + punishment effective, ... for I clapped my hands for joy when I felt + my danger to be passed—and now of course, I have no scruples.... I + may be as capricious as I please, ... may I not? Not that I ask you. + It is a settled matter. And it is useful to keep out Mr. Chorley with + Mr. Horne, and Mr. Horne with Mr. Chorley, and the rest of the world + with those two. Only the miracle is that <i>you</i> should be behind the + enclosure—within it ... and so!— +</p> +<p> + <i>That</i> is <i>my</i> side of the wonder! of the machinery of the wonder, ... + as <i>I</i> see it!—But there are greater things than these. +</p> +<p> + Speaking of the portrait of you in the 'Spirit of the Age' ... which + is not like ... no!—which has not your character, in a line of it ... + something in just the forehead and eyes and hair, ... but even <i>that</i>, + thrown utterly out of your order, by another bearing so unlike you...! + speaking of that portrait ... shall I tell you?—Mr. Horne had the + goodness to send me all those portraits, and I selected the heads + which, in right hero-worship, were anything to me, and had them framed + after a rough fashion and hung up before my eyes; Harriet Martineau's + ... because she was a woman and admirable, and had written me some + kind letters—and for the rest, Wordsworth's, Carlyle's, Tennyson's + and yours. The day you paid your first visit here, I, in a fit of + shyness not quite unnatural, ... though I have been cordially laughed + at for it by everybody in the house ... pulled down your portrait, ... + (there is the nail, under Wordsworth—) and then pulled down + Tennyson's in a fit of justice,—because I would not have his hung up + and yours away. It was the delight of my brothers to open all the + drawers and the boxes, and whatever they could get access to, and find + and take those two heads and hang them on the old nails and analyse my + 'absurdity' to me, day after day; but at last I tired them out, being + obstinate; and finally settled the question one morning by fastening + the print of you inside your Paracelsus. Oh no, it is not like—and I + knew it was not, before I saw you, though Mr. Kenyon said, 'Rather + like!' +</p> +<p> + By the way Mr. Kenyon does not come. It is strange that he should not + come: when he told me that he could not see me 'for a week or a + fortnight,' he meant it, I suppose. +</p> +<p> + So it is to be on Saturday? And I will write directly to America—the + letter will be sent by the time you get this. May God bless you ever. +</p> +<p> + It is not so much a look of 'ferocity,' ... as you say, ... in that + head, as of <i>expression by intention</i>. Several people have said of it + what nobody would say of you ... 'How affected-looking.' Which is too + strong—but it is not like you, in any way, and there's the truth. +</p> +<p> + So until Saturday. I read 'Luria' and feel the life in him. But <i>walk</i> + and do not <i>work</i>! do you? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Wholly your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, December 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Well, I did see your brother last night ... and very wisely neither + spoke nor kept silence in the proper degree, but said that 'I hoped + you were well'—from the sudden feeling that I must say <i>something</i> of + you—not pretend indifference about you <i>now</i> ... and from the + impossibility of saying the <i>full</i> of what I might; because other + people were by—and after, in the evening, when I should have remedied + the first imperfect expression, I had not altogether the heart. So, + you, dearest, will clear me with him if he wonders, will you not? But + it all hangs together; speaking of you,—to you,—writing to you—all + is helpless and sorrowful work by the side of what is in my soul to + say and to write—or is it not the natural consequence? If these + vehicles of feelings sufficed—<i>there</i> would be the end!—And that my + feeling for you should end!... For the rest, the headache which kept + away while I sate with you, made itself amends afterward, and as it is + unkind to that warm Talfourd to look blank at his hospitable + endeavours, all my power of face went <i>à qui de droit</i>— +</p> +<p> + Did your brother tell you ... yes, I think ... of the portentous book, + lettered II, and thick as a law-book, of congratulatory letters on + the appearance of 'Ion'?—But how under the B's in the Index came + 'Miss Barrett' and, woe's me, 'R.B.'! I don't know when I have had so + ghastly a visitation. There was the utterly <i>forgotten</i> letter, in the + as thoroughly disused hand-writing, in the ... I fear ... still as + completely obsolete feeling—no, not so bad as that—but at first + there was all the novelty, and social admiration at the friend—it is + truly not right to pluck all the rich soil from the roots and hold + them up clean and dry as if they came <i>so</i> from all you now see, which + is nothing at all ... like the Chinese Air-plant! Do you understand + this? And surely 'Ion' is a <i>very</i>, very beautiful and noble + conception, and finely executed,—a beautiful work—what has come + after, has lowered it down by grade after grade ... it don't stand + apart on the hill, like a wonder, now it is <i>built up</i> to by other + attempts; but the great difference is in myself. Another maker of + another 'Ion,' finding me out and behaving as Talfourd did, would not + find <i>that me</i>, so to be behaved to, so to be honoured—though he + should have all the good will! Ten years ago! +</p> +<p> + And ten years hence! +</p> +<p> + Always understand that you do <i>not</i> take me as I was at the beginning + ... with a crowd of loves to give to <i>something</i> and so get rid of + their pain and burden. I have <i>known</i> what that ends in—a handful of + anything may be as sufficient a sample, serve your purposes and teach + you its nature, as well as whole heaps—and I know what most of the + pleasures of this world are—so that I <i>can</i> be surer of myself, and + make you surer, on calm demonstrated grounds, than if I had a host of + objects of admiration or ambition <i>yet</i> to become acquainted with. You + say, 'I am a man and may change'—I answer, yes—but, while I hold my + senses, only change for the <i>presumable</i> better ... not for the + <i>experienced worst</i>. +</p> +<p> + Here is my Uncle's foot on the stair ... his knock hurried the last + sentence—here he is by me!—Understand what this would have led to, + how you would have been <i>proved logically</i> my own, best, extreme want, + my life's end—<SPAN class="sc-ex">yes</span>; dearest! Bless you ever— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 8, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Let me hear how you are, and that you are better instead of worse for + the exertions of last night. After you left me yesterday I considered + how we might have managed it more conveniently for you, and had the + lamp in, and arranged matters so as to interpose less time between the + going and the dining, even if you and George did not go together, + which might have been best, but which I did not like quite to propose. + Now, supposing that on Thursday you dine in town, remember not to be + unnecessarily 'perplext in the extreme' where to spend the time before + ... <i>five</i>, ... shall I say, at any rate? We will have the lamp, and I + can easily explain if an observation should be made ... only it will + not be, because our goers-out here never come home until six, and the + head of the house, not until seven ... as I told you. George thought + it worth while going to Mr. Talfourd's yesterday, just to see the + author of 'Paracelsus' dance the Polka ... should I not tell you? +</p> +<p> + I am vexed by another thing which he tells <i>me</i>—vexed, if amused a + little by the absurdity of it. I mean that absurd affair of the + 'Autography'—now <i>isn't</i> it absurd? And for neither you nor George to + have the chivalry of tearing out that letter of mine, which was absurd + too in its way, and which, knowing less of the world than I know now, + I wrote as if writing for my private conscience, and privately + repented writing in a day, and have gone on repenting ever since when + I happened to think enough of it for repentance! Because if Mr. + Serjeant Talfourd sent then his 'Ion' to <i>me</i>, he did it in mere + good-nature, hearing by chance of me through the publisher of my + 'Prometheus' at the moment, and of course caring no more for my + 'opinion' than for the rest of me—and it was excessively bad taste in + me to say more than the briefest word of thanks in return, even if I + had been competent to say it. Ah well!—you see how it is, and that I + am vexed <i>you</i> should have read it, ... as George says you did ... he + laughing to see me so vexed. So I turn round and avenge myself by + crying aloud against the editor of the 'Autography'! Surely such a + thing was never done before ... even by an author in the last stage of + a mortal disease of self-love. To edit the common parlance of + conventional flatteries, ... lettered in so many volumes, bound in + green morocco, and laid on the drawing-room table for one's own + particular private public,—is it not a miracle of vanity ... neither + more nor less? +</p> +<p> + I took the opportunity of the letter to Mr. Mathews (talking of vanity + ... <i>mine</i>!) to send Landor's verses to America ... yours—so they + will be in the American papers.... I know Mr. Mathews. I was speaking + to him of your last number of 'Bells and Pomegranates,' and the verses + came in naturally; just as my speaking did, for it is not the first + time nor the second nor the third even that I have written to him of + you, though I admire how in all those previous times I did it in pure + disinterestedness, ... purely because your name belonged to my country + and to her literature, ... and how I have a sort of reward at this + present, in being able to write what I please without anyone's saying + 'it is a new fancy.' As for the Americans, they have 'a zeal without + knowledge' for poetry. There is more love for <i>verse</i> among them than + among the English. But they suffer themselves to be led in their + choice of poets by English critics of average discernment; this is + said of them by their own men of letters. Tennyson is idolized deep + down in the bush woods (to their honour be it said), but to + understand <i>you</i> sufficiently, they wait for the explanations of the + critics. So I wanted them to see what Landor says of you. The comfort + in these questions is, that there can be <i>no</i> question, except between + the sooner and the later—a little sooner, and a little later: but + when there is real love and zeal it becomes worth while to try to + ripen the knowledge. They love Tennyson so much that the colour of his + waistcoats is a sort of minor Oregon question ... and I like that—do + not <i>you</i>? +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday.</i>—Now I have your letter: and you will observe, without a + finger post from me, how busily we have both been preoccupied in + disavowing our own letters of old on 'Ion'—Mr. Talfourd's collection + goes to prove too much, I think—and you, a little too much, when you + draw inferences of no-changes, from changes like these. Oh yes—I + perfectly understand that every sort of inconstancy of purpose regards + a 'presumably better' thing—but I do not so well understand how any + presumable doubt is to be set to rest by that fact, ... I do not + indeed. Have you seen all the birds and beasts in the world? have you + seen the 'unicorns'?—Which is only a pebble thrown down into your + smooth logic; and we need not stand by to watch the bubbles born of + it. And as to the 'Ion' letters, I am delighted that you have anything + to repent, as I have everything. Certainly it is a noble play—there + is the moral sublime in it: but it is not the work of a poet, ... and + if he had never written another to show what was <i>not</i> in him, this + might have been 'predicated' of it as surely, I hold. Still, it is a + noble work—and even if you over-praised it, (I did not read your + letter, though you read mine, alas!) you, under the circumstances, + would have been less noble yourself not to have done so—only, how I + agree with you in what you say against the hanging up of these dry + roots, the soil shaken off! Such abominable taste—now isn't it? ... + though you do not use that word. +</p> +<p> + I thought Mr. Kenyon would have come yesterday and that I might have + something to tell you, of him at least. +</p> +<p> + And George never told me of the thing you found to say to him of me, + and which makes me smile, and would have made him wonder if he had not + been suffering probably from some legal distraction at the moment, + inasmuch as <i>he knew perfectly that you had just left me</i>. My sisters + told him down-stairs and he came into this room just before he set off + on Saturday, with a, ... '<i>So</i> I am to meet Mr. Browning?' But he made + no observation afterwards—none: and if he heard what you said at all + (which I doubt), he referred it probably to some enforced civility on + 'Yorick's' part when the 'last chapter' was too much with him. +</p> +<p> + I have written about 'Luria' in another place—you shall have the + papers when I have read through the play. How different this living + poetry is from the polished rhetoric of 'Ion.' The man and the statue + are not more different. After all poetry is a distinct thing—it is + here or it is not here ... it is not a matter of '<i>taste</i>,' but of + sight and feeling. +</p> +<p> + As to the 'Venice' it gives proof (does it not?) rather of poetical + sensibility than of poetical faculty? or did you expect me to say + more?—of the perception of the poet, rather than of his conception. + Do you think more than this? There are fine, eloquent expressions, and + the tone of sentiment is good and high everywhere. +</p> +<p> + Do not write 'Luria' if your head is uneasy—and you cannot say that + it is not ... can you? Or will you if you can? In any case you will do + what you can ... take care of yourself and not suffer yourself to be + tired either by writing or by too much going out, and take the + necessary exercise ... this, you will do—I entreat you to do it. +</p> +<p> + May God bless and make you happy, as ... you will lose nothing if I + say ... as I am yours— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, December 9, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Well, then, I am no longer sorry that I did <i>not</i> read <i>either</i> of + your letters ... for there were two in the collection. I did not read + one word of them—and hear why. When your brother and I took the book + between us in wonderment at the notion—we turned to the index, in + large text-hand, and stopped at 'Miss B.'—and <i>he</i> indeed read them, + or some of them, but holding the volume at a distance which defied my + short-sighted eye—all <i>I</i> saw was the <i>faint</i> small characters—and, + do you know ... I neither trusted myself to ask a nearer look ... nor + a second look ... as if I were studying unduly what I had just said + was most unfairly exposed to view!—so I was silent, and lost you (in + that)—then, and for ever, I promise you, now that you speak of + vexation it would give you. <i>All</i> I know of the notes, that <i>one</i> is + addressed to Talfourd in the third person—and when I had run through + my own ... not far off ... (BA-BR)—I was sick of the book altogether. + You are generous to me—but, to say the truth, I might have remembered + the most justifying circumstance in my case ... which was, that my own + 'Paracelsus,' printed a few months before, had been as dead a failure + as 'Ion' a brilliant success—for, until just before.... Ah, really I + forget!—but I know that until Forster's notice in the <i>Examiner</i> + appeared, <i>every</i> journal that thought worth while to allude to the + poem at all, treated it with entire contempt ... beginning, I think, + with the <i>Athenæum</i> which <i>then</i> made haste to say, a few days after + its publication, 'that it was not without talent but spoiled by + obscurity and only an imitation of—Shelley'!—something to this + effect, in a criticism of about three lines among their 'Library + Table' notices. And that first taste was a most flattering sample of + what the 'craft' had in store for me—since my publisher and I had + fairly to laugh at <i>his</i> 'Book'—(quite of another kind than the + Serjeant's)—in which he was used to paste extracts from newspapers + and the like—seeing that, out of a long string of notices, one vied + with its predecessor in disgust at my 'rubbish,' as their word went: + but Forster's notice altered a good deal—which I have to recollect + for his good. Still, the contrast between myself and Talfourd was so + <i>utter</i>—you remember the world's-wonder 'Ion' made,—that I was + determined not to pass for the curious piece of neglected merit I + really <i>was not</i>—and so!— +</p> +<p> + But, dearest, why should you leave your own especial sphere of doing + me good for another than yours? +</p> +<p> + Does the sun rake and hoe about the garden as well as thine steadily + over it? <i>Why</i> must you, who give me heart and power, as nothing else + did or could, to do well—concern yourself with what might be done by + any good, kind ministrant <i>only</i> fit for such offices? Not that I + <i>feel</i>, even, more bound to you for them—they have their weight, I + <i>know</i> ... but <i>what</i> weight beside the divine gift of yourself? Do + not, dear, dearest, care for making me known: <i>you</i> know me!—and + <i>they</i> know so little, after all your endeavour, who are ignorant of + what <i>you</i> are to me—if you ... well, but that <i>will</i> follow; if I do + greater things one day—what shall they serve for, what range + themselves under of right?— +</p> +<p> + Mr. Mathews sent me two copies of his poems—and, I believe, a + newspaper, 'when time was,' about the 'Blot in the Scutcheon'—and + also, through Moxon—(I <i>believe</i> it was Mr. M.)—a proposition for + reprinting—to which I assented of course—and there was an end to the + matter. +</p> +<p> + And might I have stayed <i>till five</i>?—dearest, I will never ask for + more than you give—but I feel every single sand of the gold showers + ... spite of what I say above! I <i>have</i> an invitation for Thursday + which I had no intention of remembering (it admitted of such + liberty)—but <i>now</i>.... +</p> +<p> + Something I will <i>say</i>! 'Polka,' forsooth!—one lady whose <i>head</i> + could not, and another whose feet could not, dance!—But I talked a + little to your brother whom I like more and more: it comforts me that + he is yours. +</p> +<p> + So, <i>Thursday</i>,—thank you from the heart! I am well, and about to go + out. This week I have done nothing to 'Luria'—is it that my <i>ring</i> is + gone? There surely <i>is</i> something to forgive in me—for that shameful + business—or I should not feel as I do in the matter: but you <i>did</i> + forgive me. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">God bless my own, only love—ever—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yours wholly</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + N.B. An antiquarian friend of mine in old days picked up a nondescript + wonder of a coin. I just remember he described it as Rhomboid in + shape—cut, I fancy, out of church-plate in troubled times. What did + my friend do but get ready a box, lined with velvet, and properly + <i>compartmented</i>, to have always about him, so that the <i>next such coin + he picked</i> up, say in Cheapside, he might at once transfer to a place + of safety ... his waistcoat pocket being no happy receptacle for the + same. I saw the box—and encouraged the man to keep a vigilant eye. +</p> +<p> + <i>Parallel.</i> R.B. having found an unicorn.... +</p> +<p> + Do you forgive these strips of paper? I could not wait to send for + more—having exhausted my stock. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening<br> +[Post-mark, December 10, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + It was right of you to write ... (now see what jangling comes of not + using the fit words.... I said 'right,' not to say 'kind') ... right + of you to write to me to-day—and I had begun to be disappointed + already because the post <i>seemed</i> to be past, when suddenly the knock + brought the letter which deserves all this praising. If not 'kind' ... + then <i>kindest</i> ... will that do better? Perhaps. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon was here to-day and asked when you were coming again—and + I, I answered at random ... 'at the end of the week—Thursday or + Friday'—which did not prevent another question about 'what we were + consulting about.' He said that he 'must have you,' and had written to + beg you to go to his door on days when you came here; only murmuring + something besides of neither Thursday nor Friday being disengaged days + with him. Oh, my disingenuousness!—Then he talked again of 'Saul.' A + true impression the poem has made on him! He reads it every night, he + says, when he comes home and just before he goes to sleep, to put his + dreams into order, and observed very aptly, I thought, that it + reminded him of Homer's shield of Achilles, thrown into lyrical whirl + and life. Quite ill he took it of me the 'not expecting him to like it + so much' and retorted on me with most undeserved severity (as I felt + it), that I 'never understood anybody to have any sensibility except + myself.' Wasn't it severe, to come from dear Mr. Kenyon? But he has + caught some sort of evil spirit from your 'Saul' perhaps; though + admiring the poem enough to have a good spirit instead. And do <i>you</i> + remember of the said poem, that it is there only as a first part, and + that the next parts must certainly follow and complete what will be a + great lyrical work—now remember. And forget 'Luria' ... if you are + better forgetting. And forget <i>me</i> ... <i>when</i> you are happier + forgetting. I say <i>that</i> too. +</p> +<p> + So your idea of an unicorn is—one horn broken off. And you a + poet!—one horn broken off—or hid in the blackthorn hedge!— +</p> +<p> + Such a mistake, as our enlightened public, on their part, made, when + they magnified the divinity of the brazen chariot, just under the + thunder-cloud! I don't remember the <i>Athenæum</i>, but can well believe + that it said what you say. The <i>Athenæum</i> admires only what gods, men + and columns reject. It applauds nothing but mediocrity—mark it, as a + general rule! The good, they see—the great escapes them. Dare to + breathe a breath above the close, flat conventions of literature, and + you are 'put down' and instructed how to be like other people. By the + way, see by the very last number, that you never think to write + 'peoples,' on pain of writing what is obsolete—and these the teachers + of the public! If the public does not learn, where is the marvel of + it? An imitation of Shelley!—when if 'Paracelsus' was anything it was + the expression of a new mind, as all might see—as <i>I</i> saw, let me be + proud to remember, and I was not overdazzled by 'Ion.' +</p> +<p> + Ah, indeed if I could 'rake and hoe' ... or even pick up weeds along + the walk, ... which is the work of the most helpless children, ... if + I could do any of this, there would be some good of me: but as for + 'shining' ... shining ... when there is not so much light in me as to + do 'carpet work' by, why let anyone in the world, <i>except you</i>, tell + me to shine, and it will just be a mockery! But you have studied + astronomy with your favourite snails, who are apt to take a + dark-lanthorn for the sun, and so.— +</p> +<p> + And so, you come on Thursday, and I only hope that Mrs. Jameson will + not come too, (the carpet work makes me think of her; and, not having + come yet, she may come on Thursday by a fatal cross-stitch!) for I do + not hear from her, and my precautions are 'watched out,' May God bless + you always. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<p> + But no—I did not forgive. Where was the fault to be forgiven, except + in <i>me</i>, for not being right in my meaning? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 12, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + And now, my heart's love, I am waiting to hear from you; my heart is + <i>full</i> of you. When I try to remember what I said yesterday, <i>that</i> + thought, of what fills my heart—only <i>that</i> makes me bear with the + memory.... I know that even such imperfect, poorest of words <i>must</i> + have come <i>from</i> thence if not bearing up to you all that is + there—and I know you are ever above me to receive, and help, and + forgive, and <i>wait</i> for the one day which I will never say to myself + cannot come, when I shall speak what I feel—more of it—or <i>some</i> of + it—for now nothing is spoken. +</p> +<p> + My all-beloved— +</p> +<p> + Ah, you opposed very rightly, I dare say, the writing that paper I + spoke of! The process should be so much simpler! I most earnestly + <i>expect</i> of you, my love, that in the event of any such necessity as + was then alluded to, you accept at once in my name <i>any</i> conditions + possible for a human will to submit to—there is no imaginable + condition to which you allow me to accede that I will not joyfully + bend all my faculties to comply with. And you know this—but so, also + do you know <i>more</i> ... and yet 'I may tire of you'—'may forget you'! +</p> +<p> + I will write again, having the long, long week to wait! And one of the + things I must say, will be, that with my love, I cannot lose my pride + in you—that nothing <i>but</i> that love could balance that pride—and + that, blessing the love so divinely, you must minister to the pride as + well; yes, my own—I shall follow your fame,—and, better than fame, + the good you do—in the world—and, if you please, it shall all be + mine—as your hand, as your eyes— +</p> +<p> + I will write and pray it from you into a promise ... and your promises + I live upon. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you! your R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 13, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Do not blame me in your thoughts for what I said yesterday or wrote a + day before, or think perhaps on the dark side of some other days when + I cannot help it ... always when I cannot help it—you could not + blame me if you saw the full motives as I feel them. If it is + distrust, it is not of <i>you</i>, dearest of all!—but of myself + rather:—it is not doubt <i>of</i> you, but <i>for</i> you. From the beginning I + have been subject to the too reasonable fear which rises as my spirits + fall, that your happiness might suffer in the end through your having + known me:—it is for <i>you</i> I fear, whenever I fear:—and if you were + less to me, ... <i>should</i> I fear do you think?—if you were to me only + what I am to myself for instance, ... if your happiness were only as + precious as my own in my own eyes, ... should I fear, do you think, + <i>then</i>? Think, and do not blame me. +</p> +<p> + To tell you to 'forget me when forgetting seemed happiest for you,' + ... (was it not <i>that</i>, I said?) proved more affection than might go + in smoother words.... I could prove the truth of <i>that</i> out of my + heart. +</p> +<p> + And for the rest, you need not fear any fear of mine—my fear will not + cross a wish of yours, be sure! Neither does it prevent your being all + to me ... all: more than I used to take for all when I looked round + the world, ... almost more than I took for all in my earliest dreams. + You stand in between me and not merely the living who stood closest, + but between me and the closer graves, ... and I reproach myself for + this sometimes, and, so, ask you not to blame me for a different + thing. +</p> +<p> + As to unfavourable influences, ... I can speak of them quietly, having + foreseen them from the first, ... and it is true, I have been thinking + since yesterday, that I might be prevented from receiving you here, + and <i>should</i>, if all were known: but with that act, the adverse power + would end. It is not my fault if I have to choose between two + affections; only my pain; and I have not to choose between two duties, + I feel, ... since I am yours, while I am of any worth to you at all. + For the plan of the sealed letter, it would correct no evil,—ah, you + do not see, you do not understand. The danger does not come from the + side to which a reason may go. Only one person holds the thunder—and + I shall be thundered at; I shall not be reasoned with—it is + impossible. I could tell you some dreary chronicles made for laughing + and crying over; and you know that if I once thought I might be loved + enough to be spared above others, I cannot think so now. In the + meanwhile we need not for the present be afraid. Let there be ever so + many suspectors, there will be no informers. I suspect the suspectors, + but the informers are out of the world, I am very sure:—and then, the + one person, by a curious anomaly, <i>never</i> draws an inference of this + order, until the bare blade of it is thrust palpably into his hand, + point outwards. So it has been in other cases than ours—and so it is, + at this moment in the house, with others than ourselves. +</p> +<p> + I have your letter to stop me. If I had my whole life in my hands with + your letter, could I thank you for it, I wonder, at all worthily? I + cannot believe that I could. Yet in life and in death I shall be + grateful to you.— +</p> +<p> + But for the paper—no. Now, observe, that it would seem like a + prepared apology for something wrong. And besides—the apology would + be nothing but the offence in another form—unless you said it was all + a mistake—(<i>will</i> you, again?)—that it was all a mistake and you + were only calling for your boots! Well, if you said <i>that</i>, it would + be worth writing, but anything less would be something worse than + nothing: and would not save me—which you were thinking of, I + know—would not save me the least of the stripes. For + 'conditions'—now I will tell you what I said once in a jest.... +</p> +<p> + 'If a prince of Eldorado should come, with a pedigree of lineal + descent from some signory in the moon in one hand, and a ticket of + good-behaviour from the nearest Independent chapel, in the other'—? +</p> +<p> + 'Why even <i>then</i>,' said my sister Arabel, 'it would not <i>do</i>.' And she + was right, and we all agreed that she was right. It is an obliquity of + the will—and one laughs at it till the turn comes for crying. Poor + Henrietta has suffered silently, with that softest of possible + natures, which hers is indeed; beginning with implicit obedience, and + ending with something as unlike it as possible: but, you see, where + money is wanted, and where the dependence is total—see! And when + once, in the case of the one dearest to me; when just at the last he + was involved in the same grief, and I attempted to make over my + advantages to him; (it could be no sacrifice, you know—<i>I</i> did not + want the money, and could buy nothing with it so good as his + happiness,—) why then, my hands were seized and tied—and then and + there, in the midst of the trouble, came the end of all! I tell you + all this, just to make you understand a little. Did I not tell you + before? But there is no danger at present—and why ruffle this present + with disquieting thoughts? Why not leave that future to itself? For + me, I sit in the track of the avalanche quite calmly ... so calmly as + to surprise myself at intervals—and yet I know the reason of the + calmness well. +</p> +<p> + For Mr. Kenyon—dear Mr. Kenyon—he will speak the softest of words, + if any—only he will think privately that you are foolish and that I + am ungenerous, but I will not say so any more now, so as to teaze you. +</p> +<p> + There is another thing, of more consequence than <i>his</i> thoughts, which + is often in my mind to ask you of—but there will be time for such + questions—let us leave the winter to its own peace. If I should be + ill again you will be reasonable and we both must submit to God's + necessity. Not, you know, that I have the least intention of being + ill, if I can help it—and in the case of a tolerably mild winter, and + with all this strength to use, there are probabilities for me—and + then I have sunshine from <i>you</i>, which is better than Pisa's. +</p> +<p> + And what more would you say? Do I not hear and understand! It seems to + me that I do both, or why all this wonder and gratitude? If the + devotion of the remainder of my life could prove that I hear, ... + would it be proof enough? Proof enough perhaps—but not gift enough. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you always. +</p> +<p> + I have put <i>some</i> of the hair into a little locket which was given to + me when I was a child by my favourite uncle, Papa's only brother, who + used to tell me that he loved me better than my own father did, and + was jealous when I was not glad. It is through him in part, that I am + richer than my sisters—through him and his mother—and a great grief + it was and trial, when he died a few years ago in Jamaica, proving by + his last act that I was unforgotten. And now I remember how he once + said to me: 'Do you beware of ever loving!—If you do, you will not do + it half: it will be for life and death.' +</p> +<p> + So I put the hair into his locket, which I wear habitually, and which + never had hair before—the natural use of it being for perfume:—and + this is the best perfume for all hours, besides the completing of a + prophecy. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, December 15, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Every word you write goes to my heart and lives there: let us live so, + and die so, if God will. I trust many years hence to begin telling you + what I feel now;—that the beam of the light will have <i>reached</i> + you!—meantime it <i>is</i> here. Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest, + dearest. +</p> +<p> + Wednesday I am waiting for—how waiting for! +</p> +<p> + After all, it seems probable that there was no intentional mischief in + that jeweller's management of the ring. The divided gold must have + been exposed to fire—heated thoroughly, perhaps,—and what became of + the contents then! Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of + course. My next act is just done—that is, <i>being</i> done—but, what I + did not foresee, I cannot bring it, copied, by Wednesday, as my sister + went this morning on a visit for the week. +</p> +<p> + On the matters, the others, I will not think, as you bid me,—if I can + help, at least. But your kind, gentle, good sisters! and the provoking + sorrow of the <i>right</i> meaning at bottom of the wrong doing—wrong to + itself and its plain purpose—and meanwhile, the real tragedy and + sacrifice of a life! +</p> +<p> + If you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will be disengaged on + Wednesday evening, I shall be glad to go in that case. +</p> +<p> + But I have been writing, as I say, and will leave off this, for the + better communing with you. Don't imagine I am unwell; I feel quite + well, but a little tired, and the thought of you waits in such + readiness! So, may God bless you, beloved! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am all your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 16, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon has not come—he does not come so often, I think. Did he + <i>know</i> from <i>you</i> that you were to see me last Thursday? If he did it + might be as well, do you not think? to go to him next week. Will it + not seem frequent, otherwise? But if you did <i>not</i> tell him of + Thursday distinctly (<i>I</i> did not—remember!), he might take the + Wednesday's visit to be the substitute for rather than the successor + of Thursday's: and in that case, why not write a word to him yourself + to propose dining with him as he suggested? He really wishes to see + you—of that, I am sure. But you will know what is best to do, and he + may come here to-morrow perhaps, and ask a whole set of questions + about you; so my right hand may forget its cunning for any good it + does. Only don't send messages by <i>me</i>, please! +</p> +<p> + How happy I am with your letter to-night. +</p> +<p> + When I had sent away my last letter I began to remember, and could not + help smiling to do so, that I had totally forgotten the great subject + of my 'fame,' and the oath you administered about it—totally! Now how + do you read that omen? If I forget myself, who is to remember me, do + you think?—except <i>you</i>?—which brings me where I would stay. + Yes—'yours' it must be, but <i>you</i>, it had better be! But, to leave + the vain superstitions, let me go on to assure you that I did mean to + answer that part of your former letter, and do mean to behave well and + be obedient. Your wish would be enough, even if there could be + likelihood without it of my doing nothing ever again. Oh, certainly I + have been idle—it comes of lotus-eating—and, besides, of sitting too + long in the sun. Yet 'idle' may not be the word! silent I have been, + through too many thoughts to speak just <i>that</i>!—As to writing letters + and reading manuscripts' filling all my time, why I must lack 'vital + energy' indeed—you do not mean seriously to fancy such a thing of me! + For the rest.... Tell me—Is it your opinion that when the apostle + Paul saw the unspeakable things, being snatched up into the third + Heavens 'whether in the body or out of the body he could not + tell,'—is it your opinion that, all the week after, he worked + particularly hard at the tent-making? For my part, I doubt it. +</p> +<p> + I would not speak profanely or extravagantly—it is not the best way + to thank God. But to say only that I was in the desert and that I am + among the palm-trees, is to say nothing ... because it is easy to + <i>understand how</i>, after walking straight on ... on ... furlong after + furlong ... dreary day after dreary day, ... one may come to the end + of the sand and within sight of the fountain:—there is nothing + miraculous in <i>that</i>, you know! +</p> +<p> + Yet even in that case, to doubt whether it may not all be <i>mirage</i>, + would be the natural first thought, the recurring dream-fear! now + would it not? And you can reproach me for <i>my</i> thoughts, as if <i>they</i> + were unnatural! +</p> +<p> + Never mind about the third act—the advantage is that you will not + tire yourself perhaps the next week. What gladness it is that you + should really seem better, and how much better <i>that</i> is than even + 'Luria.' +</p> +<p> + Mrs. Jameson came to-day—but I will tell you. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you now and always. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, December 17, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Henrietta had a note from Mr. Kenyon to the effect that he was 'coming + to see <i>Ba</i>' to-day if in any way he found it possible. Now he has not + come—and the inference is that he will come to-morrow—in which case + you will be convicted of not wishing to be with him perhaps. So ... + would it not be advisable for you to call at his door for a + moment—and <i>before</i> you come here? Think of it. You know it would not + do to vex him—would it? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, December 19, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I ought to have written yesterday: so to-day when I need a letter and + get none, there is my own fault besides, and the less consolation. A + letter from you would light up this sad day. Shall I fancy how, if a + letter lay <i>there</i> where I look, rain might fall and winds blow while + I listened to you, long after the <i>words</i> had been laid to heart? But + here you are in your place—with me who am your own—your own—and so + the rhyme joins on, +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">She shall speak to me in places lone<br> +With a low and holy tone—<br> +Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night<br> +She shall be present with my sprite:<br> +And I will say, whate'er it be,<br> +Every word she telleth me! +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Now, is that taken from your book? No—but from <i>my</i> book, which holds + my verses as I write them; and as I open it, I read that. +</p> +<p> + And speaking of verse—somebody gave me a few days ago that Mr. + Lowell's book you once mentioned to me. Anyone who 'admires' <i>you</i> + shall have my sympathy at once—even though he <i>do</i> change the + laughing wine-<i>mark</i> into a 'stain' in that perfectly beautiful + triplet—nor am I to be indifferent to his good word for myself + (though not very happily connected with the criticism on the epithet + in that 'Yorkshire Tragedy'—which has better things, by the + way—seeing that 'white boy,' in old language, meant just 'good boy,' + a general epithet, as Johnson notices in the life of Dryden, whom the + schoolmaster Busby was used to class with his 'white boys'—this is + hypercriticism, however). But these American books should not be + reprinted here—one asks, what and where is the class to which they + address themselves? for, no doubt, we have our congregations of + ignoramuses that enjoy the profoundest ignorance imaginable on the + subjects treated of; but <i>these</i> are evidently not the audience Mr. + Lowell reckons on; rather, if one may trust the manner of his setting + to work, he would propound his doctrine to the class. Always to be + found, of spirits instructed up to a certain height and there + resting—vines that run up a prop and there tangle and grow to a + knot—which want supplying with fresh poles; so the provident man + brings his bundle into the grounds, and sticks them in laterally or + a-top of the others, as the case requires, and all the old stocks go + on growing again—but here, with us, whoever <i>wanted</i> Chaucer, or + Chapman, or Ford, got him long ago—what else have Lamb, and + Coleridge, and Hazlitt and Hunt and so on to the end of their + generations ... what else been doing this many a year? What one + passage of all these, cited with the very air of a Columbus, but has + been known to all who know anything of poetry this many, many a year? + The others, who don't know anything, are the stocks that have got to + <i>shoot</i>, not climb higher—<i>compost</i>, they want in the first place! + Ford's and Crashaw's rival Nightingales—why they have been + dissertated on by Wordsworth and Coleridge, then by Lamb and Hazlitt, + then worked to death by Hunt, who printed them entire and quoted them + to pieces again, in every periodical he was ever engaged upon; and yet + after all, here 'Philip'—'must read' (out of a roll of dropping + papers with yellow ink tracings, so old!) something at which 'John' + claps his hands and says 'Really—that these ancients should own so + much wit &c.'! The <i>passage</i> no longer looks its fresh self after this + veritable passage from hand to hand: as when, in old dances, the belle + began the figure with her own partner, and by him was transferred to + the next, and so to the next—<i>they</i> ever <i>beginning</i> with all the old + alacrity and spirit; but she bearing a still-accumulating weight of + tokens of gallantry, and none the better for every fresh pushing and + shoving and pulling and hauling—till, at the bottom of the room— +</p> +<p> + To which Mr. Lowell might say, that—No, I will say the true thing + against myself—and it is, that when I turn from what is in my mind, + and determine to write about anybody's book to avoid writing that I + love and love and love again my own, dearest love—because of the + cuckoo-song of it,—<i>then</i>, I shall be in no better humour with that + book than with Mr. Lowell's! +</p> +<p> + But I <i>have</i> a new thing to say or sing—you never before heard me + love and bless and send my heart after—'Ba'—did you? Ba ... and + that is you! I <SPAN class="sc-ex">tried</span> ... (more than <i>wanted</i>) to call you <i>that</i>, on + Wednesday! I have a flower here—rather, a tree, a mimosa, which must + be turned and turned, the side to the light changing in a little time + to the <i>leafy</i> side, where all the fans lean and spread ... so I turn + your name to me, that side I have not last seen: you cannot tell how I + feel glad that you will not part with the name—Barrett—seeing you + have two of the same—and must always, moreover, remain my EBB! +</p> +<p> + Dearest 'E.B.C.'—no, no! and so it will never be! +</p> +<p> + Have you seen Mr. Kenyon? I did not write ... knowing that such a + procedure would draw the kind sure letter in return, with the + invitation &c., as if I had asked for it! I had perhaps better call on + him some morning very early. +</p> +<p> + Bless you, my own sweetest. You will write to me, I know in my heart! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever may God bless you!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest, you know how to say what makes me happiest, you who never + think, you say, of making me happy! For my part I do not think of it + either; I simply understand that you <i>are</i> my happiness, and that + therefore you could not make another happiness for me, such as would + be worth having—not even <i>you</i>! Why, how could you? <i>That</i> was in my + mind to speak yesterday, but I could not speak it—to write it, is + easier. +</p> +<p> + Talking of happiness—shall I tell you? Promise not to be angry and I + will tell you. I have thought sometimes that, if I considered myself + wholly, I should choose to die this winter—now—before I had + disappointed you in anything. But because you are better and dearer + and more to be considered than I, I do <i>not</i> choose it. I <i>cannot</i> + choose to give you any pain, even on the chance of its being a less + pain, a less evil, than what may follow perhaps (who can say?), if I + should prove the burden of your life. +</p> +<p> + For if you make me happy with some words, you frighten me with + others—as with the extravagance yesterday—and seriously—<i>too</i> + seriously, when the moment for smiling at them is past—I am + frightened, I tremble! When you come to know me as well as I know + myself, what can save me, do you think, from disappointing and + displeasing you? I ask the question, and find no answer. +</p> +<p> + It is a poor answer, to say that I can do one thing well ... that I + have one capacity largely. On points of the general affections, I have + in thought applied to myself the words of Mme. de Stael, not + fretfully, I hope, not complainingly, I am sure (I can thank God for + most affectionate friends!) not complainingly, yet mournfully and in + profound conviction—those words—'<i>jamais je n'ai pas été aimée comme + j'aime</i>.' The capacity of loving is the largest of my powers I + think—I thought so before knowing you—and one form of feeling. And + although any woman might love you—<i>every</i> woman,—with understanding + enough to discern you by—(oh, do not fancy that I am unduly + magnifying mine office) yet I persist in persuading myself that! + Because I have the capacity, as I said—and besides I owe more to you + than others could, it seems to me: let me boast of it. To many, you + might be better than all things while one of all things: to me you are + instead of all—to many, a crowning happiness—to me, the happiness + itself. From out of the deep dark pits men see the stars more + gloriously—and <i>de profundis amavi</i>— +</p> +<p> + It is a very poor answer! Almost as poor an answer as yours could be + if I were to ask you to teach me to please you always; or rather, how + not to displease you, disappoint you, vex you—what if all those + things were in my fate? +</p> +<p> + And—(to begin!)—<i>I</i> am disappointed to-night. I expected a letter + which does not come—and I had felt so sure of having a letter + to-night ... unreasonably sure perhaps, which means doubly sure. +</p> +<p> + <i>Friday.</i>—Remember you have had two notes of mine, and that it is + certainly not my turn to write, though I am writing. +</p> +<p> + Scarcely you had gone on Wednesday when Mr. Kenyon came. It seemed + best to me, you know, that you should go—I had the presentiment of + his footsteps—and so near they were, that if you had looked up the + street in leaving the door, you must have seen him! Of course I told + him of your having been here and also at his house; whereupon he + enquired eagerly if you meant to dine with him, seeming disappointed + by my negative. 'Now I had told him,' he said ... and murmured on to + himself loud enough for me to hear, that 'it would have been a + peculiar pleasure &c.' The reason I have not seen him lately is the + eternal 'business,' just as you thought, and he means to come 'oftener + now,' so nothing is wrong as I half thought. +</p> +<p> + As your letter does not come it is a good opportunity for asking what + sort of ill humour, or (to be more correct) bad temper, you most + particularly admire—sulkiness?—the divine gift of sitting aloof in a + cloud like any god for three weeks together perhaps—pettishness? ... + which will get you up a storm about a crooked pin or a straight one + either? obstinacy?—which is an agreeable form of temper I can assure + you, and describes itself—or the good open passion which lies on the + floor and kicks, like one of my cousins?—Certainly I prefer the last, + and should, I think, prefer it (as an evil), even if it were not the + born weakness of my own nature—though I humbly confess (to <i>you</i>, who + seem to think differently of these things) that never since I was a + child have I upset all the chairs and tables and thrown the books + about the room in a fury—I am afraid I do not even 'kick,' like my + cousin, now. Those demonstrations were all done by the 'light of other + days'—not a very full light, I used to be accustomed to think:—but + <i>you</i>,—<i>you</i> think otherwise, <i>you</i> take a fury to be the opposite of + 'indifference,' as if there could be no such thing as self-control! + Now for my part, I do believe that the worst-tempered persons in the + world are less so through sensibility than selfishness—they spare + nobody's heart, on the ground of being themselves pricked by a straw. + Now see if it isn't so. What, after all, is a good temper but + generosity in trifles—and what, without it, is the happiness of life? + We have only to look round us. I <i>saw</i> a woman, once, burst into + tears, because her husband cut the bread and butter too thick. I saw + <i>that</i> with my own eyes. Was it <i>sensibility</i>, I wonder! They were at + least real tears and ran down her cheeks. 'You <i>always</i> do it'! she + said. +</p> +<p> + Why how you must sympathize with the heroes and heroines of the French + romances (<i>do</i> you sympathize with them very much?) when at the + slightest provocation they break up the tables and chairs, (a degree + beyond the deeds of my childhood!—<i>I</i> only used to upset them) break + up the tables and chairs and chiffoniers, and dash the china to atoms. + The men <i>do</i> the furniture, and the women the porcelain: and pray + observe that they always set about this as a matter of course! When + they have broken everything in the room, they sink down quite (and + very naturally) <i>abattus</i>. I remember a particular case of a hero of + Frederic Soulié's, who, in the course of an 'emotion,' takes up a + chair <i>unconsciously</i>, and breaks it into very small pieces, and then + proceeds with his soliloquy. Well!—the clearest idea this excites in + <i>me</i>, is of the low condition in Paris, of moral government and of + upholstery. Because—just consider for yourself—how <i>you</i> would + succeed in breaking to pieces even a three-legged stool if it were + properly put together—as stools are in England—just yourself, + without a hammer and a screw! You might work at it <i>comme quatre</i>, and + find it hard to finish, I imagine. And then as a demonstration, a + child of six years old might demonstrate just so (in his sphere) and + be whipped accordingly. +</p> +<p> + How I go on writing!—and you, who do not write at all!—two extremes, + one set against the other. +</p> +<p> + But I must say, though in ever such an ill temper (which you know is + just the time to select for writing a panegyric upon good temper) that + I am glad you do not despise my own right name too much, because I + never was called Elizabeth by any one who loved me at all, and I + accept the omen. So little it seems my name that if a voice said + suddenly 'Elizabeth,' I should as soon turn round as my sisters would + ... no sooner. Only, my own right name has been complained of for want + of euphony ... <i>Ba</i> ... now and then it has—and Mr. Boyd makes a + compromise and calls me <i>Elibet</i>, because nothing could induce him to + desecrate his organs accustomed to Attic harmonies, with a <i>Ba</i>. So I + am glad, and accept the omen. +</p> +<p> + But I give you no credit for not thinking that I may forget you ... I! + As if you did not see the difference! Why, <i>I</i> could not even forget + to <i>write</i> to <i>you</i>, observe!— +</p> +<p> + Whenever you write, say how you are. Were you wet on Wednesday? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I do not, nor will not think, dearest, of ever 'making you happy'—I + can imagine no way of working that end, which does not go straight to + my own truest, only true happiness—yet in every such effort there is + implied some distinction, some supererogatory grace, or why speak of + it at all? <i>You</i> it is, are my happiness, and all that ever can be: + <SPAN class="sc-ex">you</span>—dearest! +</p> +<p> + But never, if you would not, what you will not do I know, never revert + to <i>that</i> frightful wish. 'Disappoint me?' 'I speak what I know and + testify what I have seen'—you shall 'mystery' again and again—I do + not dispute that, but do not <i>you</i> dispute, neither, that mysteries + are. But it is simply because I do most justice to the mystical part + of what I feel for you, because I consent to lay most stress on that + fact of facts that I love you, beyond admiration, and respect, and + esteem and affection even, and do not adduce any reason which stops + short of accounting for <i>that</i>, whatever else it would account for, + because I do this, in pure logical justice—<i>you</i> are able to turn and + wonder (if you <i>do ... now</i>) what causes it all! My love, only wait, + only believe in me, and it cannot be but I shall, little by little, + become known to you—after long years, perhaps, but still one day: I + <i>would</i> say <i>this</i> now—but I will write more to-morrow. God bless my + sweetest—ever, love, I am your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + But my letter came last night, did it not? +</p> +<p> + Another thing—no, <i>to-morrow</i>—for time presses, and, in all cases, + <i>Tuesday</i>—remember! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I have your letter now, and now I am sorry I sent mine. If I wrote + that you had 'forgotten to write,' I did not mean it; not a word! If I + had meant it I should not have written it. But it would have been + better for every reason to have waited just a little longer before + writing at all. A besetting sin of mine is an impatience which makes + people laugh when it does not entangle their silks, pull their knots + tighter, and tear their books in cutting them open. +</p> +<p> + How right you are about Mr. Lowell! He has a refined fancy and is + graceful for an American critic, but the truth is, otherwise, that he + knows nothing of English poetry or the next thing to nothing, and has + merely had a dream of the early dramatists. The amount of his reading + in that direction is an article in the <i>Retrospective Review</i> which + contains extracts; and he re-extracts the extracts, re-quotes the + quotations, and, 'a pede Herculem,' from the foot infers the man, or + rather from the sandal-string of the foot, infers and judges the soul + of the man—it is comparative anatomy under the most speculative + conditions. How a writer of his talents and pretensions could make up + his mind to make up a book on such slight substratum, is a curious + proof of the state of literature in America. Do you not think so? Why + a lecturer on the English Dramatists for a 'Young Ladies' academy' + here in England, might take it to be necessary to have better + information than he could gather from an odd volume of an old review! + And then, Mr. Lowell's naïveté in showing his authority,—as if the + Elizabethan poets lay mouldering in inaccessible manuscript somewhere + below the lowest deep of Shakespeare's grave,—is curious beyond the + rest! Altogether, the fact is an epigram on the surface-literature of + America. As you say, their books do not suit us:—Mrs. Markham might + as well send her compendium of the History of France to M. Thiers. If + they <i>knew</i> more they could not give parsley crowns to their own + native poets when there is greater merit among the rabbits. Mrs. + Sigourney has just sent me—just this morning—her 'Scenes in my + Native Land' and, peeping between the uncut leaves, I read of the poet + Hillhouse, of 'sublime spirit and Miltonic energy,' standing in 'the + temple of Fame' as if it were built on purpose for him. I suppose he + is like most of the American poets, who are shadows of the true, as + flat as a shadow, as colourless as a shadow, as lifeless and as + transitory. Mr. Lowell himself is, in his verse-books, poetical, if + not a poet—and certainly this little book we are talking of is + grateful enough in some ways—you would call it a <i>pretty book</i>—would + you not? Two or three letters I have had from him ... all very + kind!—and <i>that</i> reminds me, alas! of some ineffable ingratitude on + my own part! When one's conscience grows too heavy, there is nothing + for it but to throw it away!— +</p> +<p> + Do you remember how I tried to tell you what he said of you, and how + you would not let me? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Mathews said of <i>him</i>, having met him once in society, that he was + the concentration of conceit in appearance and manner. But since then + they seem to be on better terms. +</p> +<p> + Where is the meaning, pray, of E.B.<i>C.</i>? <i>your</i> meaning, I mean? +</p> +<p> + My true initials are E.B.M.B.—my long name, as opposed to my short + one, being Elizabeth Barrett Moulton Barrett!—there's a full length + to take away one's breath!—Christian name ... Elizabeth + Barrett:—surname, Moulton Barrett. So long it is, that to make it + portable, I fell into the habit of doubling it up and packing it + closely, ... and of forgetting that I was a <i>Moulton</i>, altogether. One + might as well write the alphabet as all four initials. Yet our + family-name is <i>Moulton Barrett</i>, and my brothers reproach me + sometimes for sacrificing the governorship of an old town in Norfolk + with a little honourable verdigris from the Heralds' Office. As if I + cared for the <i>Retrospective Review</i>! Nevertheless it is true that I + would give ten towns in Norfolk (if I had them) to own some purer + lineage than that of the blood of the slave! Cursed we are from + generation to generation!—I seem to hear the 'Commination Service.' +</p> +<p> + May God bless you always, always! beyond the always of this world!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Dickens's 'Cricket' sings repetitions, and, with considerable + beauty, is extravagant. It does not appear to me by any means one of + his most successful productions, though quite free from what was + reproached as bitterness and one-sidedness, last year. +</p> +<p> + You do not say how you are—not a word! And you are wrong in saying + that you 'ought to have written'—as if 'ought' could be in place + <i>so</i>! You <i>never 'ought' to write to me you know</i>! or rather ... if + you ever think you ought, you ought not! Which is a speaking of + mysteries on my part! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, December 22, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Now, '<i>ought</i>' you to be 'sorry you sent that letter,' which made, and + makes me so happy—so happy—can you bring yourself to turn round and + tell one you have so blessed with your bounty that there was a + mistake, and you meant only half that largess? If you are not sensible + that you <i>do</i> make me most happy by such letters, and do not warm in + the reflection of your own rays, then I <i>do</i> give up indeed the last + chance of procuring <i>you</i> happiness. My own 'ought,' which you object + to, shall be withdrawn—being only a pure bit of selfishness; I felt, + in missing the letter of yours, next day, that I <i>might</i> have drawn it + down by one of mine,—if I had begged never so gently, the gold would + have fallen—<i>there</i> was my omitted duty to myself which you properly + blame. I should stand silently and wait and be sure of the + ever-remembering goodness. +</p> +<p> + Let me count my gold now—and rub off any speck that stays the full + shining. First—<i>that thought</i> ... I told you; I pray you, pray you, + sweet—never that again—or what leads never so remotely or indirectly + to it! On <i>your own fancied ground</i>, the fulfilment would be of + necessity fraught with every woe that can fall in this life. I am + yours for ever—if you are not <i>here</i>, with me—what then? Say, you + take all of yourself away but just enough to live on; then, <i>that</i> + defeats every kind purpose ... as if you cut away all the ground from + my feet but so much as serves for bare standing room ... why still, I + <i>stand</i> there—and is it the better that I have no broader space, + when off <i>that</i> you cannot force me? I have your memory, the knowledge + of you, the idea of you printed into my heart and brain,—on that, I + can live my life—but it is for you, the dear, utterly generous + creature I know you, to give me more and more beyond mere life—to + extend life and deepen it—as you do, and will do. Oh, <i>how</i> I love + you when I think of the entire truthfulness of your generosity to + me—how, meaning and willing to <i>give</i>, you gave <i>nobly</i>! Do you think + I have not seen in this world how women who <i>do</i> love will manage to + confer that gift on occasion? And shall I allow myself to fancy how + much alloy such pure gold as <i>your</i> love would have rendered + endurable? Yet it came, virgin ore, to complete my fortune! And what + but this makes me confident and happy? <i>Can</i> I take a lesson by your + fancies, and begin frightening myself with saying ... 'But if she saw + all the world—the worthier, better men there ... those who would' &c. + &c. No, I think of the great, dear <i>gift</i> that it was; how I '<i>won</i>' + <SPAN class="sc-ex">nothing</span> (the hateful word, and <i>French</i> thought)—did nothing by my + own arts or cleverness in the matter ... so what pretence have the + <i>more</i> artful or more clever for:—but I cannot write out this + folly—I am yours for ever, with the utmost sense of gratitude—to say + I would give you my life joyfully is little.... I would, I hope, do + that for two or three other people—but I am not conscious of any + imaginable point in which I would not implicitly devote my whole self + to you—be disposed of by you as for the best. There! It is not to be + spoken of—let me <i>live</i> it into proof, beloved! +</p> +<p> + And for 'disappointment and a burden' ... now—let us get quite away + from ourselves, and not see one of the filaments, but only the <i>cords</i> + of love with the world's horny eye. Have we such jarring tastes, then? + Does your inordinate attachment to gay life interfere with my deep + passion for society? 'Have they common sympathy in each other's + pursuits?'—always asks Mrs. Tomkins! Well, here was I when you knew + me, fixed in my way of life, meaning with God's help to write what + may be written and so die at peace with myself so far. Can you help me + or no? Do you <i>not</i> help me so much that, if you saw the more likely + peril for poor human nature, you would say, 'He will be jealous of all + the help coming from me,—none from him to me!'—And <i>that would</i> be a + consequence of the help, all-too-great for hope of return, with any + one less possessed than I with the exquisiteness of being + <i>transcended</i> and the <i>blest</i> one. +</p> +<p> + But—'here comes the Selah and the voice is hushed'—I will speak of + other things. When we are together one day—the days I believe in—I + mean to set about that reconsidering 'Sordello'—it has always been + rather on my mind—but yesterday I was reading the 'Purgatorio' and + the first speech of the group of which Sordello makes one struck me + with a new significance, as well describing the man and his purpose + and fate in my own poem—see; one of the burthened, contorted souls + tells Virgil and Dante— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Noi fummo già tutti per forza morti,<br> +E <i>peccatori infin' all' ultim' ora</i>:<br> +<SPAN class="sc-ex">Quivi</span>—<i>lume del ciel ne fece accorti<br> +Si chè, pentendo e perdonando, fora<br> +Di vita uscimmo a Dio pacificati<br> +Che del disio di se veder n'accora.</i><a href="#note-23"><b>23</b></a> +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p>Which is just my Sordello's story ... could I '<i>do</i>' it off hand, I + wonder— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">And sinners were we to the extreme hour;<br> + <i>Then</i>, light from heaven fell, making us aware,<br> +So that, repenting us and pardoned, out<br> +Of life we passed to God, at peace with Him<br> +Who fills the heart with yearning Him to see. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p> + There were many singular incidents attending my work on that + subject—thus, quite at the end, I found out there <i>was printed</i> and + not published, a little historical tract by a Count V—— something, + called 'Sordello'—with the motto 'Post fata resurgam'! I hope he + prophesied. The main of this—biographical notices—is extracted by + Muratori, I think. Last year when I set foot in Naples I found after a + few minutes that at some theatre, that night, the opera was to be 'one + act of Sordello' and I never looked twice, nor expended a couple of + carlines on the <i>libretto</i>! +</p> +<p> + I wanted to tell you, in last letter, that when I spoke of people's + tempers <i>you</i> have no concern with 'people'—I do not glance obliquely + at <i>your</i> temper—either to discover it, or praise it, or adapt myself + to it. I speak of the relation one sees in other cases—how one + opposes passionate foolish people, but hates cold clever people who + take quite care enough of themselves. I myself am born supremely + passionate—so I was born with light yellow hair: all changes—that is + the passion changes its direction and, taking a channel large enough, + looks calmer, perhaps, than it should—and all my sympathies go with + quiet strength, of course—but I know what the other kind is. As for + the breakages of chairs, and the appreciation of Parisian <i>meubles</i>; + manibus, pedibusque descendo in tuam sententiam, Ba, mi ocelle! ('What + was E.B. C?' why, the first letter after, and <i>not</i>, E.B. <i>B</i>, my own + <i>B</i>! There was no latent meaning in the C—but I had no inclination to + go on to D, or E, for instance). +</p> +<p> + And so, love, Tuesday is to be our day—one day more—and then! And + meanwhile '<i>care</i>' for me! a good word for you—but <i>my</i> care, what is + that! One day I aspire to <i>care</i>, though! I shall not go away at any + dear Mr. K.'s coming! They call me down-stairs to supper—and my fire + is out, and you keep me from feeling cold and yet ask if I am well? + Yes, well—yes, happy—and your own ever—I must bid God bless + you—dearest! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, December 24, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + But did I dispute? Surely not. Surely I believe in you and in + 'mysteries.' Surely I prefer the no-reason to ever so much rationalism + ... (rationalism and infidelity go together they say!). All which I + may do, and be afraid sometimes notwithstanding, and when you + overpraise me (<i>not</i> over<i>love</i>) I must be frightened as I told you. +</p> +<p> + It is with me as with the theologians. I believe in you and can be + happy and safe <i>so</i>; but when my 'personal merits' come into question + in any way, even the least, ... why then the position grows untenable: + it is no more 'of grace.' +</p> +<p> + Do I tease you as I tease myself sometimes? But do not wrong me in + turn! Do not keep repeating that 'after long years' I shall know + you—know you!—as if I did not without the years. If you are forced + to refer me to those long ears, I must deserve the thistles besides. + The thistles are the corollary. +</p> +<p> + For it is obvious—manifest—that I cannot doubt of you, that I may + doubt of myself, of happiness, of the whole world,—but of + <i>you</i>—<i>not</i>: it is obvious that if I could doubt of you and <i>act so</i> + I should be a very idiot, or worse indeed. And <i>you</i> ... you think I + doubt of you whenever I make an interjection!—now do you not? And is + it reasonable?—Of <i>you</i>, I mean? +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday.</i>—For my part, you must admit it to be too possible that you + may be, as I say, 'disappointed' in me—it <i>is</i> too possible. And if + it does me good to say so, even now perhaps ... if it is mere weakness + to say so and simply torments you, why do <i>you</i> be magnanimous and + forgive <i>that</i> ... let it pass as a weakness and forgive it <i>so</i>. + Often I think painful things which I do not tell you and.... +</p> +<p> + While I write, your letter comes. Kindest of you it was, to write me + such a letter, when I expected scarcely the shadow of one!—this makes + up for the other letter which I expected unreasonably and which you + '<i>ought not</i>' to have written, as was proved afterwards. And now why + should I go on with that sentence? What had I to say of 'painful + things,' I wonder? all the painful things seem gone ... vanished. I + forget what I had to say. Only do you still think of this, dearest + beloved; that I sit here in the dark but for <i>you</i>, and that the light + you bring me (from <i>my</i> fault!—from the nature of <i>my</i> darkness!) is + not a settled light as when you open the shutters in the morning, but + a light made by candles which burn some of them longer and some + shorter, and some brighter and briefer, at once—being 'double-wicks,' + and that there is an intermission for a moment now and then between + the dropping of the old light into the socket and the lighting of the + new. Every letter of yours is a new light which burns so many hours + ... and <i>then</i>!—I am morbid, you see—or call it by what name you + like ... too wise or too foolish. 'If the light of the body is + darkness, how great is that darkness.' Yet even when I grow too wise, + I admit always that while you love me it is an answer to all. And I am + never so much too foolish as to wish to be worthier for my own + sake—only for yours:—not for my own sake, since I am content to owe + all things to you. +</p> +<p> + And it could be so much to you to lose me!—and you say so,—and + <i>then</i> think it needful to tell me not to think the other thought! As + if <i>that</i> were possible! Do you remember what you said once of the + flowers?—that you 'felt a respect for them when they had passed out + of your hands.' And must it not be so with my life, which if you + choose to have it, must be respected too? Much more with my life! + Also, see that I, who had my warmest affections on the other side of + the grave, feel that it is otherwise with me now—quite otherwise. I + did not like it at first to be so much otherwise. And I could not have + had any such thought through a weariness of life or any of my old + motives, but simply to escape the 'risk' I told you of. Should I have + said to you instead of it ... '<i>Love me for ever</i>'? Well then, ... I + <i>do</i>. +</p> +<p> + As to my 'helping' you, my help is in your fancy; and if you go on + with the fancy, I perfectly understand that it will be as good as + deeds. We <i>have</i> sympathy too—we walk one way—oh, I do not forget + the advantages. Only Mrs. Tomkins's ideas of happiness are below my + ambition for you. +</p> +<p> + So often as I have said (it reminds me) that in this situation I + should be more exacting than any other woman—so often I have said it: + and so different everything is from what I thought it would be! + Because if I am exacting it is for <i>you</i> and not for <i>me</i>—it is + altogether for <i>you</i>—you understand <i>that</i>, dearest of all ... it is + for <i>you wholly</i>. It never crosses my thought, in a lightning even, + the question whether I may be happy so and so—<i>I</i>. It is the other + question which comes always—too often for peace. +</p> +<p> + People used to say to me, 'You expect too much—you are too romantic.' + And my answer always was that 'I could not expect too much when I + expected nothing at all' ... which was the truth—for I never thought + (and how often I have <i>said that</i>!) I never thought that anyone whom + <i>I</i> could love, would stoop to love <i>me</i> ... the two things seemed + clearly incompatible to my understanding. +</p> +<p> + And now when it comes in a miracle, you wonder at me for looking + twice, thrice, four times, to see if it comes through ivory or <i>horn</i>. + You wonder that it should seem to me at first all illusion—illusion + for you,—illusion for me as a consequence. But how natural. +</p> +<p> + It is true of me—very true—that I have not a high appreciation of + what passes in the world (and not merely the Tomkins-world!) under the + name of love; and that a distrust of the thing had grown to be a habit + of mind with me when I knew you first. It has appeared to me, through + all the seclusion of my life and the narrow experience it admitted + of, that in nothing men—and women too—were so apt to mistake their + own feelings, as in this one thing. Putting <i>falseness</i> quite on one + side, quite out of sight and consideration, an honest mistaking of + feeling appears wonderfully common, and no mistake has such frightful + results—none can. Self-love and generosity, a mistake may come from + either—from pity, from admiration, from any blind impulse—oh, when I + look at the histories of my own female friends—to go no step further! + And if it is true of the <i>women</i>, what must the other side be? To see + the marriages which are made every day! worse than solitudes and more + desolate! In the case of the two happiest I ever knew, one of the + husbands said in confidence to a brother of mine—not much in + confidence or I should not have heard it, but in a sort of smoking + frankness,—that he had 'ruined his prospects by marrying'; and the + other said to himself at the very moment of professing an + extraordinary happiness, ... 'But I should have done as well if I had + not married <i>her</i>.' +</p> +<p> + Then for the falseness—the first time I ever, in my own experience, + heard that word which rhymes to glove and comes as easily off and on + (on some hands!)—it was from a man of whose attentions to another + woman I was at that <i>time her confidante</i>. I was bound so to silence + for her sake, that I could not even speak the scorn that was in + me—and in fact my uppermost feeling was a sort of horror ... a + terror—for I was very young then, and the world did, at the moment, + look ghastly! +</p> +<p> + The falseness and the calculations!—why how can you, who are <i>just</i>, + <i>blame women</i> ... when you must know what the 'system' of man is + towards them,—and of men not ungenerous otherwise? Why are women to + be blamed if they act as if they had to do with swindlers?—is it not + the mere instinct of preservation which makes them do it? These make + women what they are. And your 'honourable men,' the most loyal of + them, (for instance) is it not a rule with them (unless when taken + unaware through a want of self-government) to force a woman (trying + all means) to force a woman to stand committed in her affections ... + (they with their feet lifted all the time to trample on her for want + of delicacy) before <i>they</i> risk the pin-prick to their own personal + pitiful vanities? Oh—to see how these things are set about by <i>men</i>! + to see how a man carefully holding up on each side the skirts of an + embroidered vanity to keep it quite safe from the wet, will contrive + to tell you in so many words that he ... might love you if the sun + shone! And women are to be blamed! Why there are, to be sure, cold and + heartless, light and changeable, ungenerous and calculating women in + the world!—that is sure. But for the most part, they are only what + they are made ... and far better than the nature of the making ... of + that I am confident. The loyal make the loyal, the disloyal the + disloyal. And I give no more discredit to those women you speak of, + than I myself can take any credit in this thing—I. Because who could + be disloyal with <i>you</i> ... with whatever corrupt inclination? <i>you</i>, + who are the noblest of all? If you judge me so, ... it is my privilege + rather than my merit ... as I feel of myself. +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday.</i>—All but the last few lines of all this was written + before I saw you yesterday, ever dearest—and since, I have been + reading your third act which is perfectly noble and worthy of you both + in the conception and expression, and carries the reader on + triumphantly ... to speak for one reader. It seems to me too that the + language is freer—there is less inversion and more breadth of rhythm. + It just strikes me so for the first impression. At any rate the + interest grows and grows. You have a secret about Domizia, I + guess—which will not be told till the last perhaps. And that poor, + noble Luria, who will be equal to the leap ... as it is easy to see. + It is full, altogether, of magnanimities;—noble, and nobly put. I + will go on with my notes, and those, you shall have at once ... I mean + together ... presently. And don't hurry and chafe yourself for the + fourth act—now that you are better! To be ill again—think what that + would be! Luria will be great now whatever you do—or whatever you do + <i>not</i>. Will he not? +</p> +<p> + And never, never for a moment (I quite forgot to tell you) did I fancy + that you were talking at <i>me</i> in the temper-observations—never. It + was the most unprovoked egotism, all that I told you of my temper; for + certainly I never suspected you of asking questions so. I was simply + amused a little by what you said, and thought to myself (if you <i>will</i> + know my thoughts on that serious subject) that you had probably lived + among very good-tempered persons, to hold such an opinion about the + innocuousness of ill-temper. It was all I thought, indeed. Now to + fancy that I was capable of suspecting you of such a manoeuvre! Why + you would have <i>asked</i> me directly;—if you had wished 'curiously to + enquire.' +</p> +<p> + An excellent solemn chiming, the passage from Dante makes with your + 'Sordello,' and the 'Sordello' <i>deserves</i> the labour which it needs, + to make it appear the great work it is. I think that the principle of + association is too subtly in movement throughout it—so that <i>while</i> + you are going straight forward you go at the same time round and + round, until the progress involved in the motion is lost sight of by + the lookers on. Or did I tell you that before? +</p> +<p> + You have heard, I suppose, how Dickens's 'Cricket' sells by nineteen + thousand copies at a time, though he takes Michael Angelo to be 'a + humbug'—or for 'though' read 'because.' Tell me of Mr. Kenyon's + dinner and Moxon? +</p> +<p> + Is not this an infinite letter? I shall hear from you, I hope.... I + <i>ask</i> you to let me hear soon. I write all sorts of things to you, + rightly and wrongly perhaps; when wrongly forgive it. I think of you + always. May God bless you. 'Love me for ever,' as +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Ba</i> +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">25th Dec. [1845.] +</p> +<p> + My dear Christmas gift of a letter! I will write back a few lines, + (all I can, having to go out now)—just that I may forever,—certainly + during our mortal 'forever'—mix my love for you, and, as you suffer + me to say, your love for me ... dearest! ... these shall be mixed with + the other loves of the day and live therein—as I write, and trust, + and know—forever! While I live I will remember what was my feeling in + reading, and in writing, and in stopping from either ... as I have + just done ... to kiss you and bless you with my whole heart.—Yes, + yes, bless you, my own! +</p> +<p> + All is right, all of your letter ... admirably right and just in the + defence of the women I <i>seemed</i> to speak against; and only + seemed—because that is a way of mine which you must have observed; + that foolish concentrating of thought and feeling, for a moment, on + some one little spot of a character or anything else indeed, and in + the attempt to do justice and develop whatever may seem ordinarily to + be overlooked in it,—that over vehement <i>insisting</i> on, and giving an + undue prominence to, the same—which has the effect of taking away + from the importance of the rest of the related objects which, in + truth, are not considered at all ... or they would also rise + proportionally when subjected to the same (that is, correspondingly + magnified and dilated) light and concentrated feeling. So, you + remember, the old divine, preaching on 'small sins,' in his zeal to + expose the tendencies and consequences usually made little account of, + was led to maintain the said small sins to be 'greater than great + ones.' <i>But then</i> ... if you look on the world <i>altogether</i>, and + accept the small natures, in their usual proportion with the greater + ... things do not look <i>quite</i> so bad; because the conduct which <i>is</i> + atrocious in those higher cases, of proposal and acceptance, <i>may</i> be + no more than the claims of the occasion justify (wait and hear) in + certain other cases where the thing sought for and granted is avowedly + less by a million degrees. It shall all be traffic, exchange (counting + spiritual gifts as only coin, for our purpose), but surely the + formalities and policies and decencies all vary with the nature of the + thing trafficked for. If a man makes up his mind during half his life + to acquire a Pitt-diamond or a Pilgrim-pearl—[he] gets witnesses and + testimony and so forth—but, surely, when I pass a shop where oranges + are ticketed up seven for sixpence I offend no law by sparing all + words and putting down the piece with a certain authoritative ring on + the counter. If instead of diamonds you want—(being a king or + queen)—provinces with live men on them ... there is so much more + diplomacy required; new interests are appealed to—high motives + <i>supposed</i>, at all events—whereas, when, in Naples, a man asks leave + to black your shoe in the dusty street 'purely for the honour of + serving your Excellency' you laugh and would be sorry to find yourself + without a 'grano' or two—(six of which, about, make a farthing)—Now + do you not see! Where so little is to be got, why offer much more? If + a man knows that ... but I am teaching you! All I mean is, that, in + Benedick's phrase, 'the world must go on.' He who honestly wants his + wife to sit at the head of his table and carve ... that is be his + <i>help-meat</i> (not 'help mete for him')—he shall assuredly find a girl + of his degree who wants the table to sit at; and some dear friend to + mortify, who <i>would</i> be glad of such a piece of fortune; and if that + man offers that woman a bunch of orange-flowers and a sonnet, instead + of a buck-horn-handled sabre-shaped knife, sheathed in a 'Every Lady + Her Own <i>Market-Woman</i>, Being a Table of' &c. &c.—<i>then</i>, I say he + is— +</p> +<p> + Bless you, dearest—the clock strikes—and time is none—but—bless + you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday 4. p.m.<br> +[Post-mark, December 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + I was forced to leave off abruptly on Christmas Morning—and now I + have but a few minutes before our inexorable post leaves. I hoped to + return from Town earlier. But I can say something—and Monday will + make amends. +</p> +<p> + 'For ever' and for ever I <i>do</i> love you, dearest—love you with my + whole heart—in life, in death— +</p> +<p> + Yes; I did go to Mr. Kenyon's—who had a little to forgive in my slack + justice to his good dinner, but was for the rest his own kind + self—and I went, also, to Moxon's—who said something about my + number's going off 'rather heavily'—so let it! +</p> +<p> + Too good, too, too indulgent you are, my own Ba, to 'acts' first or + last; but all the same, I am glad and encouraged. <i>Let</i> me get done + with these, and better things will follow. +</p> +<p> + Now, bless you, ever, my sweetest—I have you ever in my thoughts—And + on Monday, remember, I am to see you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own R.B. +</p> +<p> + See what I cut out of a <i>Cambridge Advertiser</i><a href="#note-24"><b>24</b></a> of the 24th—to make + you laugh! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 27, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, indeed, I have 'observed that way' in you, and not once, and not + twice, and not twenty times, but oftener than any,—and almost every + time ... do you know, ... with an uncomfortable feeling from the + reflection that <i>that</i> is the way for making all sorts of mistakes + dependent on and issuing in exaggeration. It is the very way!—the + highway. +</p> +<p> + For what you say in the letter here otherwise, I do not deny the + truth—as partial truth:—I was speaking generally quite. Admit that I + am not apt to be extravagant in my <i>esprit de sexe</i>: the Martineau + doctrines of intellectual equality &c., I gave them up, you remember, + like a woman—most disgracefully, as Mrs. Jameson would tell me. But + we are not on that ground now—we are on ground worth holding a brief + for!—and when women fail <i>here</i> ... it is not so much our fault. + Which was all I meant to say from the beginning. +</p> +<p> + It reminds me of the exquisite analysis in your 'Luria,' this third + act, of the worth of a woman's sympathy,—indeed of the exquisite + double-analysis of unlearned and learned sympathies. Nothing could be + better, I think, than this:— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">To the motive, the endeavour,—the heart's self—<br> +Your quick sense looks; you crown and call aright<br> +The soul of the purpose ere 'tis shaped as act,<br> +Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king; +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">except the characterizing of the 'learned praise,' which comes + afterwards in its fine subtle truth. What would these critics do to + you, to what degree undo you, who would deprive you of the exercise of + the discriminative faculty of the metaphysicians? As if a poet could + be great without it! They might as well recommend a watchmaker to deal + only in faces, in dials, and not to meddle with the wheels inside! + You shall tell Mr. Forster so. +</p> +<p> + And speaking of 'Luria,' which grows on me the more I read, ... how + fine he is when the doubt breaks on him—I mean, when he begins ... + 'Why then, all is very well.' It is most affecting, I think, all that + process of doubt ... and that reference to the friends at home (which + at once proves him a stranger, and intimates, by just a stroke, that + he will not look home for comfort out of the new foreign treason) is + managed by you with singular dramatic dexterity.... +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p> ... 'so slight, so slight,<br> +And yet it tells you they are dead and gone'— +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">And then, the direct approach.... +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">You now, so kind here, all you Florentines,<br> +What is it in your eyes?— +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p> + Do you not feel it to be success, ... '<i>you</i> now?' <i>I</i> do, from my low + ground as reader. The whole breaking round him of the cloud, and the + manner in which he <i>stands</i>, facing it, ... I admire it all + thoroughly. Braccio's vindication of Florence strikes me as almost too + <i>poetically</i> subtle for the man—but nobody could have the heart to + wish a line of it away—<i>that</i> would be too much for critical virtue! +</p> +<p> + I had your letter yesterday morning early. The post-office people were + so resolved on keeping their Christmas, that they would not let me + keep mine. No post all day, after that general post before noon, which + never brings me anything worth the breaking of a seal! +</p> +<p> + Am I to see you on Monday? If there should be the least, least + crossing of that day, ... anything to do, anything to see, anything to + listen to,—remember how Tuesday stands close by, and that another + Monday comes on the following week. Now I need not say <i>that</i> every + time, and you will please to remember it—Eccellenza!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + From the <i>New Monthly Magazine</i>. 'The admirers of Robert Browning's + poetry, and they are now very numerous, will be glad to hear of the + issue by Mr. Moxon of a seventh series of the renowned "Bells" and + delicious "Pomegranates," under the title of "Dramatic Romances and + Lyrics."' +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, December 30, 1845.] +</p> +<p> + When you are gone I find your flowers; and you never spoke of nor + showed them to me—so instead of yesterday I thank you to-day—thank + you. Count among the miracles that your flowers live with me—I accept + <i>that</i> for an omen, dear—dearest! Flowers in general, all other + flowers, die of despair when they come into the same atmosphere ... + used to do it so constantly and observably that it made me melancholy + and I left off for the most part having them here. Now you see how + they put up with the close room, and condescend to me and the dust—it + is true and no fancy! To be sure they know that I care for them and + that I stand up by the table myself to change their water and cut + their stalk freshly at intervals—<i>that</i> may make a difference + perhaps. Only the great reason must be that they are yours, and that + you teach them to bear with me patiently. +</p> +<p> + Do not pretend even to misunderstand what I meant to say yesterday of + dear Mr. Kenyon. His blame would fall as my blame of myself has + fallen: he would say—will say—'it is ungenerous of her to let such a + risk be run! I thought she would have been more generous.' There, is + Mr. Kenyon's opinion as I foresee it! Not that it would be spoken, you + know! he is too kind. And then, he said to me last summer, somewhere + <i>à propos</i> to the flies or butterflies, that he had 'long ceased to + wonder at any extreme of foolishness produced by—<i>love</i>.' He will of + course think you very very foolish, but not ungenerously foolish like + other people. +</p> +<p> + Never mind. I do not mind indeed. I mean, that, having said to myself + worse than the worst perhaps of what can be said against me by any who + regard me at all, and feeling it put to silence by the fact that you + <i>do</i> feel so and so for me; feeling that fact to be an answer to + all,—I cannot mind much, in comparison, the railing at second remove. + There will be a nine days' railing of it and no more: and if on the + ninth day you should not exactly wish never to have known me, the + better reason will be demonstrated to stand with us. On this one point + the wise man cannot judge for the fool his neighbour. If you <i>do</i> love + me, the inference is that you would be happier with than without + me—and whether you do, you know better than another: so I think of + <i>you</i> and not of <i>them</i>—always of <i>you</i>! When I talked of being + afraid of dear Mr. Kenyon, I just meant that he makes me nervous with + his all-scrutinizing spectacles, put on for great occasions, and his + questions which seem to belong to the spectacles, they go together + so:—and then I have no presence of mind, as you may see without the + spectacles. My only way of hiding (when people set themselves to look + for me) would be the old child's way of getting behind the window + curtains or under the sofa:—and even <i>that</i> might not be effectual if + I had recourse to it now. Do you think it would? Two or three times I + fancied that Mr. Kenyon suspected something—but if he ever <i>did</i>, his + only reproof was a reduplicated praise of <i>you</i>—he praises you always + and in relation to every sort of subject. +</p> +<p> + What a <i>misomonsism</i> you fell into yesterday, you who have much great + work to do which no one else can do except just yourself!—and you, + too, who have courage and knowledge, and must know that every work, + with the principle of life in it, <i>will</i> live, let it be trampled ever + so under the heel of a faithless and unbelieving generation—yes, that + it will live like one of your toads, for a thousand years in the heart + of a rock. All men can teach at second or third hand, as you said ... + by prompting the foremost rows ... by tradition and translation:—all, + <i>except</i> poets, who must preach their own doctrine and sing their own + song, to be the means of any wisdom or any music, and therefore have + stricter duties thrust upon them, and may not lounge in the <span title="stoa">στοα</span> + like the conversation-teachers. So much I have to say to you, + till we are in the Siren's island—and <i>I</i>, jealous of the Siren!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">The Siren waits thee singing song for song, +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">says Mr. Landor. A prophecy which refuses to class you with the 'mute + fishes,' precisely as I do. +</p> +<p> + And are you not my 'good'—all my good now—my only good ever? The + Italians would say it better without saying more. +</p> +<p> + I had a letter from Miss Martineau this morning who accounts for her + long silence by the supposition,—put lately to an end by scarcely + credible information from Mr. Moxon, she says—that I was out of + England; gone to the South from the 20th of September. She calls + herself the strongest of women, and talks of 'walking fifteen miles + one day and writing fifteen pages another day without fatigue,'—also + of mesmerizing and of being infinitely happy except in the continued + alienation of two of her family who cannot forgive her for getting + well by such unlawful means. And she is to write again to tell me of + Wordsworth, and promises to send me her new work in the meanwhile—all + very kind. +</p> +<p> + So here is my letter to you, which you asked for so 'against the + principles of universal justice.' Yes, very unjust—very unfair it + was—only, you make me do just as you like in everything. Now confess + to your own conscience that even if I had not a lawful claim of a debt + against you, I might come to ask charity with another sort of claim, + oh 'son of humanity.' Think how much more need of a letter <i>I</i> have + than you can have; and that if you have a giant's power, ''tis + tyrannous to use it like a giant.' Who would take tribute from the + desert? How I grumble. <i>Do</i> let me have a letter directly! remember + that no other light comes to my windows, and that I wait 'as those who + watch for the morning'—'lux mea!' +</p> +<p> + May God bless you—and mind to say how you are <i>exactly</i>, and don't + neglect the walking, <i>pray</i> do not. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own +</p> +<p> + And after all, those women! A great deal of doctrine commends and + discommends itself by the delivery: and an honest thing may be said so + foolishly as to disprove its very honesty. Now after all, what did she + mean by that very silly expression about books, but that she did not + feel as she considered herself capable of feeling—and that else but + <i>that</i> was the meaning of the other woman? Perhaps it should have been + spoken earlier—nay, clearly it should—but surely it was better + spoken even in the last hour than not at all ... surely it is always + and under all circumstances, better spoken at whatever cost—I have + thought so steadily since I could think or feel at all. An entire + openness to the last moment of possible liberty, at whatever cost and + consequence, is the most honourable and most merciful way, both for + men and women! perhaps for men in an especial manner. But I shall send + this letter away, being in haste to get change for it. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday, December 31, 1845. +</p> +<p> + I have been properly punished for so much treachery as went to that + re-urging the prayer that <i>you</i> would begin writing, when all the time + (after the first of those words had been spoken which bade <i>me</i> write) + I was full of purpose to send my own note last evening; one which + should do its best to thank you: but see, the punishment! At home I + found a note from Mr. Horne—on the point of setting out for Ireland, + too unwell to manage to come over to me; anxious, so he said, to see + me before leaving London, and with only Tuesday or to-day to allow the + opportunity of it, if I should choose to go and find him out. So I + considered all things and determined to go—but not till so late did I + determine on Tuesday, that there was barely time to get to + Highgate—wherefore no letter reached you to beg pardon ... and now + this undeserved—beyond the usual undeservedness—this + last-day-of-the-Year's gift—do you think or not think my gratitude + weighs on me? When I lay this with the others, and remember what you + have done for me—I do bless you—so as I cannot but believe must + reach the all-beloved head all my hopes and fancies and cares fly + straight to. Dearest, whatever change the new year brings with it, we + are together—I can give you no more of myself—indeed, you give me + now (back again if you choose, but changed and renewed by your + possession) the powers that seemed most properly mine. I could only + mean that, by the expressions to which you refer—only could mean that + you were my crown and palm branch, now and for ever, and so, that it + was a very indifferent matter to me if the world took notice of that + fact or no. Yes, dearest, that <i>is</i> the meaning of the prophecy, which + I was stupidly blind not to have read and taken comfort from long ago. + You ARE the veritable Siren—and you 'wait me,' and will sing 'song + for song.' And this is my first song, my true song—this love I bear + you—I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that + name—love. I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me: + they are not earnest enough; so far, not true enough—but this is all + the flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your + feet. +</p> +<p> + Now let me say it—what you are to remember. That if I had the + slightest doubt, or fear, I would utter it to you on the + instant—secure in the incontested stability of the main <i>fact</i>, even + though the heights at the verge in the distance should tremble and + prove vapour—and there would be a deep consolation in your + forgiveness—indeed, yes; but I tell you, on solemn consideration, it + does seem to me that—once take away the broad and general words that + admit in their nature of any freight they can be charged with,—put + aside love, and devotion, and trust—and <i>then</i> I seem to have said + <i>nothing</i> of my feeling to you—nothing whatever. +</p> +<p> + I will not write more now on this subject. Believe you are my blessing + and infinite reward beyond possible desert in intention,—my life has + been crowned by you, as I said! +</p> +<p> + May God bless you ever—through you I shall be blessed. May I kiss + your cheek and pray this, my own, all-beloved? +</p> +<p> + I must add a word or two of other things. I am very well now, quite + well—am walking and about to walk. Horne, or rather his friends, + reside in the very lane Keats loved so much—Millfield Lane. Hunt lent + me once the little copy of the first Poems dedicated to him—and on + the title-page was recorded in Hunt's delicate characters that 'Keats + met him with this, the presentation-copy, or whatever was the odious + name, in M—— Lane—called Poets' Lane by the gods—Keats came + running, holding it up in his hand.' Coleridge had an affection for + the place, and Shelley '<i>knew</i>' it—and I can testify it is green and + silent, with pleasant openings on the grounds and ponds, through the + old trees that line it. But the hills here are far more open and wild + and hill-like; not with the eternal clump of evergreens and thatched + summer house—to say nothing of the 'invisible railing' miserably + visible everywhere. +</p> +<p> + You very well know <i>what</i> a vision it is you give me—when you speak + of <i>standing up by the table</i> to care for my flowers—(which I will + never be ashamed of again, by the way—I will say for the future; + 'here are my best'—in this as in other things.) Now, do you remember, + that once I bade you not surprise me out of my good behaviour by + standing to meet me unawares, as visions do, some day—but now—<i>omne + ignotum</i>? No, dearest! +</p> +<p> + Ought I to say there will be two days more? till Saturday—and if one + word comes, <i>one</i> line—think! I am wholly yours—yours, beloved! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">January 1, 1845 [1846]. +</p> +<p> + How good you are—how best! it is a favourite play of my memory to + take up the thought of what you were to me (to my mind gazing!) years + ago, as the poet in an abstraction—then the thoughts of you, a little + clearer, in concrete personality, as Mr. Kenyon's friend, who had + dined with him on such a day, or met him at dinner on such another, + and said some great memorable thing 'on Wednesday last,' and enquired + kindly about <i>me</i> perhaps on Thursday,—till I was proud! and so, the + thoughts of you, nearer and nearer (yet still afar!) as the Mr. + Browning who meant to do me the honour of writing to me, and who did + write; and who asked me once in a letter (does he remember?) 'not to + lean out of the window while his foot was on the stair!'—to take up + all those thoughts, and more than those, one after another, and tie + them together with all <i>these</i>, which cannot be named so easily—which + cannot be classed in botany and Greek. It is a nosegay of mystical + flowers, looking strangely and brightly, and keeping their May-dew + through the Christmases—better than even <i>your</i> flowers! And I am not + 'ashamed' of mine, ... be very sure! no! +</p> +<p> + For the siren, I never suggested to you any such thing—why you do not + pretend to have read such a suggestion in my letter certainly. <i>That</i> + would have been most exemplarily modest of me! would it not, O + Ulysses? +</p> +<p> + And you meant to write, ... you <i>meant</i>! and went to walk in 'Poet's + lane' instead, (in the 'Aonius of Highgate') which I remember to have + read of—does not Hunt speak of it in his Memoirs?—and so now there + is another track of light in the traditions of the place, and people + may talk of the pomegranate-smell between the hedges. So you really + have <i>hills</i> at New Cross, and not hills by courtesy? I was at + Hampstead once—and there was something attractive to me in that + fragment of heath with its wild smell, thrown down ... like a Sicilian + rose from Proserpine's lap when the car drove away, ... into all that + arid civilization, 'laurel-clumps and invisible visible fences,' as + you say!—and the grand, eternal smoke rising up in the distance, with + its witness against nature! People grew severely in jest about cockney + landscape—but is it not true that the trees and grass in the close + neighbourhood of great cities must of necessity excite deeper emotion + than the woods and valleys will, a hundred miles off, where human + creatures ruminate stupidly as the cows do, the 'county families' + es-<i>chewing</i> all men who are not 'landed proprietors,' and the farmers + never looking higher than to the fly on the uppermost turnip-leaf! Do + you know at all what English country-life is, which the English praise + so, and 'moralize upon into a thousand similes,' as that one greatest, + purest, noblest thing in the world—the purely English and excellent + thing? It is to my mind simply and purely abominable, and I would + rather live in a street than be forced to live it out,—that English + country-life; for I don't mean life in the country. The social + exigencies—why, nothing <i>can</i> be so bad—nothing! That is the way by + which Englishmen grow up to top the world in their peculiar line of + respectable absurdities. +</p> +<p> + Think of my talking so as if I could be vexed with any one of them! + <i>I!</i>—On the contrary I wish them all a happy new year to abuse one + another, or visit each of them his nearest neighbour whom he hates, + three times a week, because 'the distance is so convenient,' and give + great dinners in noble rivalship (venison from the Lord Lieutenant + against turbot from London!), and talk popularity and game-law by + turns to the tenantry, and beat down tithes to the rector. This + glorious England of ours; with its peculiar glory of the rural + districts! And <i>my</i> glory of patriotic virtue, who am so happy in + spite of it all, and make a pretence of talking—talking—while I + think the whole time of your letter. I think of your letter—I am no + more a patriot than <i>that</i>! +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, best and dearest! You say things to me which I am + not worthy to listen to for a moment, even if I was deaf dust the next + moment.... I confess it humbly and earnestly as before God. +</p> +<p> + Yet He knows,—if the entireness of a gift means anything,—that I + have not given with a reserve, that I am yours in my life and soul, + for this year and for other years. Let me be used <i>for</i> you rather + than <i>against</i> you! and that unspeakable, immeasurable grief of + feeling myself a stone in your path, a cloud in your sky, may I be + saved from it!—pray it for <i>me</i> ... for <i>my</i> sake rather than + <i>yours</i>. For the rest, I thank you, I thank you. You will be always to + me, what to-day you are—and that is all!—! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, January 5, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Yesterday, nearly the last thing, I bade you 'think of me'—I wonder + if you could misunderstand me in that?—As if my words or actions or + any of my ineffectual outside-self <i>should</i> be thought of, unless to + be forgiven! But I do, dearest, feel confident that while I am in your + mind—cared for, rather than thought about—no great harm can happen + to me; and as, for great harm to reach me, it must pass through you, + you will care for yourself; <i>my</i>self, best self! +</p> +<p> + Come, let us talk. I found Horne's book at home, and have had time to + see that fresh beautiful things are there—I suppose 'Delora' will + stand alone still—but I got pleasantly smothered with that odd shower + of wood-spoils at the end, the dwarf-story; cup-masses and fern and + spotty yellow leaves,—all that, I love heartily—and there is good + sailor-speech in the 'Ben Capstan'—though he does knock a man down + with a 'crow-bar'—instead of a marling-spike or, even, a + belaying-pin! The first tale, though good, seems least new and + individual, but I must know more. At one thing I wonder—his not + reprinting a quaint clever <i>real</i> ballad, published before 'Delora,' + on the 'Merry Devil of Edmonton'—the first of his works I ever read. + No, the very first piece was a single stanza, if I remember, in which + was this line: 'When bason-crested Quixote, lean and bold,'—good, is + it not? Oh, while it strikes me, good, too, <i>is</i> that 'Swineshead + Monk' ballad! Only I miss the old chronicler's touch on the method of + concocting the poison: 'Then stole this Monk into the Garden and under + a certain herb found out a Toad, which, squeezing into a cup,' &c. + something to that effect. I suspect, <i>par parenthèse</i>, you have found + out by this time my odd liking for 'vermin'—you once wrote '<i>your</i> + snails'—and certainly snails are old clients of mine—but efts! Horne + traced a line to me—in the rhymes of a ''prentice-hand' I used to + look over and correct occasionally—taxed me (last week) with having + altered the wise line 'Cold as a <i>lizard</i> in a <i>sunny</i> stream' to + 'Cold as a newt hid in a shady brook'—for 'what do <i>you</i> know about + newts?' he asked of the author—who thereupon confessed. But never try + and catch a speckled gray lizard when we are in Italy, love, and you + see his tail hang out of the chink of a wall, his + winter-house—because the strange tail will snap off, drop from him + and stay in your fingers—and though you afterwards learn that there + is more desperation in it and glorious determination to be free, than + positive pain (so people say who have no tails to be twisted off)—and + though, moreover, the tail grows again after a sort—<i>yet</i> ... don't + do it, for it will give you a thrill! What a fine fellow our English + water-eft is; 'Triton paludis Linnaei'—<i>e come guizza</i> (<i>that</i> you + can't say in another language; cannot preserve the little in-and-out + motion along with the straightforwardness!)—I always loved all those + wild creatures God '<i>sets up for themselves</i>' so independently of us, + so successfully, with their strange happy minute inch of a candle, as + it were, to light them; while we run about and against each other with + our great cressets and fire-pots. I once saw a solitary bee nipping a + leaf round till it exactly fitted the front of a hole; his nest, no + doubt; or tomb, perhaps—'Safe as Oedipus's grave-place, 'mid Colone's + olives swart'—(Kiss me, my Siren!)—Well, it seemed awful to watch + that bee—he seemed so <i>instantly</i> from the teaching of God! Ælian + says that ... a <i>frog</i>, does he say?—some animal, having to swim + across the Nile, never fails to provide himself with a bit of reed, + which he bites off and holds in his mouth transversely and so puts + from shore gallantly ... because when the water-serpent comes swimming + to meet him, there is the reed, wider than his serpent's jaws, and no + hopes of a swallow that time—now fancy the two meeting heads, the + frog's wide eyes and the vexation of the snake! +</p> +<p> + Now, see! do I deceive you? Never say I began by letting down my + dignity 'that with no middle flight intends to soar above the Aonian + Mount'!— +</p> +<p> + My best, dear, dear one,—may you be better, less <i>depressed</i>, ... I + can hardly imagine frost reaching you if I could be by you. Think what + happiness you mean to give me,—what a life; what a death! 'I may + change'—too true; yet, you see, as an eft was to me at the beginning + so it continues—I <i>may</i> take up stones and pelt the next I + see—but—do you much fear that?—Now, <i>walk</i>, move, <i>guizza, anima + mia dolce</i>. Shall I not know one day how far your mouth will be from + mine as we walk? May I let that stay ... dearest, (the <i>line</i> stay, + not the mouth)? +</p> +<p> + I am not very well to-day—or, rather, have not been so—<i>now</i>, I am + well and <i>with you</i>. I just say that, very needlessly, but for strict + frankness' sake. Now, you are to write to me soon, and tell me all + about your self, and to love me ever, as I love you ever, and bless + you, and leave you in the hands of God—My own love!— +</p> +<p> + Tell me if I do wrong to send <i>this</i> by a morning post—so as to reach + you earlier than the evening—when you will ... write to me? +</p> +<p> + Don't let me forget to say that I shall receive the <i>Review</i> + to-morrow, and will send it directly. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 6, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + When you get Mr. Horne's book you will understand how, after reading + just the first and the last poems, I could not help speaking coldly a + little of it—and in fact, estimating his power as much as you can do, + I did think and do, that the last was unworthy of him, and that the + first might have been written by a writer of one tenth of his faculty. + But last night I read the 'Monk of Swineshead Abbey' and the 'Three + Knights of Camelott' and 'Bedd Gelert' and found them all of different + stuff, better, stronger, more consistent, and read them with pleasure + and admiration. Do you remember this application, among the countless + ones of shadow to the transiency of life? I give the first two lines + for clearness— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Like to the cloud upon the hill<br> +We are a moment seen<br> +Or the <i>shadow of the windmill-sail<br> +Across yon sunny slope of green</i>. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">New or not, and I don't remember it elsewhere, it is just and + beautiful I think. Think how the shadow of the windmill-sail just + touches the ground on a bright windy day! the shadow of a bird flying + is not faster! Then the 'Three Knights' has beautiful things, with + more definite and distinct images than he is apt to show—for his + character is a vague grand massiveness,—like Stonehenge—or at least, + if 'towers and battlements he sees' they are 'bosomed high' in dusky + clouds ... it is a 'passion-created imagery' which has no clear + outline. In this ballad of the 'Knights,' and in the Monk's too, we + may <i>look at</i> things, as on the satyr who swears by his horns and + mates not with his kind afterwards, 'While, <i>holding beards</i>, they + dance in pairs—and that is all excellent and reminds one of those + fine sylvan festivals, 'in Orion.' But now tell me if you like + altogether 'Ben Capstan' and if you consider the sailor-idiom to be + lawful in poetry, because I do not indeed. On the same principle we + may have Yorkshire and Somersetshire 'sweet Doric'; and do recollect + what it ended in of old, in the Blowsibella heroines. Then for the Elf + story ... why should such things be written by men like Mr. Horne? I + am vexed at it. Shakespeare and Fletcher did not write so about + fairies:—Drayton did not. Look at the exquisite 'Nymphidia,' with its + subtle sylvan consistency, and then at the lumbering coarse ... + '<i>machina intersit</i>' ... Grandmama Grey!—to say nothing of the 'small + dog' that isn't the 'small boy.' Mr. Horne succeeds better on a larger + canvass, and with weightier material; with blank verse rather than + lyrics. He cannot make a fine stroke. He wants subtlety and elasticity + in the thought and expression. Remember, I admire him honestly and + earnestly. No one has admired more than I the 'Death of Marlowe,' + scenes in 'Cosmo,' and 'Orion' in much of it. But now tell me if you + can accept with the same stretched out hand all these lyrical poems? I + am going to write to him as much homage as can come truly. Who + combines different faculties as you do, striking the whole octave? No + one, at present in the world. +</p> +<p> + Dearest, after you went away yesterday and I began to consider, I + found that there was nothing to be so over-glad about in the matter + of the letters, for that, Sunday coming next to Saturday, the best now + is only as good as the worst before, and I can't hear from you, until + Monday ... Monday! Did you think of <i>that</i>—you who took the credit of + acceding so meekly! I shall not praise you in return at any rate. I + shall have to wait ... till what o'clock on Monday, tempted in the + meanwhile to fall into controversy against the 'new moons and sabbath + days' and the pausing of the post in consequence. +</p> +<p> + You never guessed perhaps, what I look back to at this moment in the + physiology of our intercourse, the curious double feeling I had about + you—you personally, and you as the writer of these letters, and the + crisis of the feeling, when I was positively vexed and jealous of + myself for not succeeding better in making a unity of the two. I could + not! And moreover I could not help but that the writer of the letters + seemed nearer to me, long ... long ... and in spite of the postmark, + than did the personal visitor who confounded me, and left me + constantly under such an impression of its being all dream-work on his + side, that I have stamped my feet on this floor with impatience to + think of having to wait so many hours before the 'candid' closing + letter could come with its confessional of an illusion. 'People say,' + I used to think, 'that women <i>always</i> know, and certainly I do not + know, and therefore ... therefore.'—The logic crushed on like + Juggernaut's car. But in the letters it was different—the dear + letters took me on the side of my own ideal life where I was able to + stand a little upright and look round. I could read such letters for + ever and answer them after a fashion ... that, I felt from the + beginning. But <i>you</i>—! +</p> +<p> + <i>Monday.</i>—Never too early can the light come. Thank you for my + letter! Yet you look askance at me over 'newt and toad,' and praise so + the Elf-story that I am ashamed to send you my ill humour on the same + head. And you really like <i>that</i>? admire it? Grandmama Grey and the + night cap and all? and 'shoetye and blue sky?' and is it really wrong + of me to like certainly some touches and images, but not the whole, + ... not the poem as a whole? I can take delight in the fantastical, + and in the grotesque—but here there is a want of life and + consistency, as it seems to me!—the elf is no elf and speaks no + elf-tongue: it is not the right key to touch, ... this, ... for + supernatural music. So I fancy at least—but I will try the poem again + presently. You must be right—unless it should be your over-goodness + opposed to my over-badness—I will not be sure. Or you wrote perhaps + in an accidental mood of most excellent critical smoothness, such as + Mr. Forster did his last <i>Examiner</i> in, when he gave the all-hail to + Mr. Harness as one of the best dramatists of the age!! Ah no!—not + such as Mr. Forster's. Your soul does not enter into his secret—There + can be nothing in common between you. For him to say such a word—he + who knows—or ought to know!—And now let us agree and admire the + bowing of the old ministrel over Bedd Gelert's unfilled grave— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">The <i>long</i> beard <i>fell</i> like <i>snow</i> into the grave<br> + +With solemn grace +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">A poet, a friend, a generous man Mr. Horne is, even if no laureate for + the fairies. +</p> +<p> + I have this moment a parcel of books via Mr. Moxon—Miss Martineau's + two volumes—and Mr. Bailey sends his 'Festus,' very kindly, ... and + 'Woman in the Nineteenth Century' from America from a Mrs. or a Miss + Fuller—how I hate those 'Women of England,' 'Women and their Mission' + and the rest. As if any possible good were to be done by such + expositions of rights and wrongs. +</p> +<p> + Your letter would be worth them all, if <i>you</i> were less <i>you</i>! I mean, + just this letter, ... all alive as it is with crawling buzzing + wriggling cold-blooded warm-blooded creatures ... as all alive as your + own pedant's book in the tree. And do you know, I think I like frogs + too—particularly the very little leaping frogs, which are so + high-hearted as to emulate the birds. I remember being scolded by my + nurses for taking them up in my hands and letting them leap from one + hand to the other. But for the toad!—why, at the end of the row of + narrow beds which we called our gardens when we were children, grew an + old thorn, and in the hollow of the root of the thorn, lived a toad, a + great ancient toad, whom I, for one, never dared approach too nearly. + That he 'wore a jewel in his head' I doubted nothing at all. You must + see it glitter if you stooped and looked steadily into the hole. And + on days when he came out and sate swelling his black sides, I never + looked steadily; I would run a hundred yards round through the shrubs, + deeper than knee-deep in the long wet grass and nettles, rather than + go past him where he sate; being steadily of opinion, in the + profundity of my natural history-learning, that if he took it into his + toad's head to spit at me I should drop down dead in a moment, + poisoned as by one of the Medici. +</p> +<p> + Oh—and I had a field-mouse for a pet once, and should have joined my + sisters in a rat's nest if I had not been ill at the time (as it was, + the little rats were tenderly smothered by over-love!): and + blue-bottle flies I used to feed, and hated your spiders for them; yet + no, not much. My aversion proper ... call it horror rather ... was for + the silent, cold, clinging, gliding <i>bat</i>; and even now, I think, I + could not sleep in the room with that strange bird-mouse-creature, as + it glides round the ceiling silently, silently as its shadow does on + the floor. If you listen or look, there is not a wave of the wing—the + wing never waves! A bird without a feather! a beast that flies! and so + cold! as cold as a fish! It is the most supernatural-seeming of + natural things. And then to see how when the windows are open at night + those bats come sailing ... without a sound—and go ... you cannot + guess where!—fade with the night-blackness! +</p> +<p> + You have not been well—which is my first thought if not my first + word. Do walk, and do not work; and think ... what I could be thinking + of, if I did not think of <i>you</i> ... dear—dearest! 'As the doves fly + to the windows,' so I think of you! As the prisoners think of liberty, + as the dying think of Heaven, so I think of you. When I look up + straight to God ... nothing, no one, used to intercept me—now there + is <i>you</i>—only you under him! Do not use such words as those therefore + any more, nor say that you are not to be thought of so and so. You are + to be thought of every way. You must know what you are to me if you + know at all what <i>I</i> am,—and what I should be but for you. +</p> +<p> + So ... love me a little, with the spiders and the toads and the + lizards! love me as you love the efts—and I will believe in <i>you</i> as + you believe ... in Ælian—Will <i>that</i> do? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<p> + Say how you are when you write—<i>and write</i>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning. +</p> +<p> + I this minute receive the Review—a poor business, truly! Is there a + reason for a man's wits dwindling the moment he gets into a critical + High-place to hold forth?—I have only glanced over the article + however. Well, one day <i>I</i> am to write of you, dearest, and it must + come to something rather better than <i>that</i>! +</p> +<p> + I am forced to send now what is to be sent at all. Bless you, dearest. + I am trusting to hear from you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R.B. +</p> +<p> + And I find by a note from a fairer friend and favourer of mine that in + the <i>New Quarterly</i> 'Mr. Browning' figures pleasantly as 'one without + any sympathy for a human being!'—Then, for newts and efts at all + events! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, January 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + But, my sweet, there is safer going in letters than in visits, do you + not see? In the letter, one may go to the utmost limit of one's + supposed tether without danger—there is the distance so palpably + between the most audacious step <i>there</i>, and the next ... which is + nowhere, seeing it is not in the letter. Quite otherwise in personal + intercourse, where any indication of turning to a certain path, even, + might possibly be checked not for its own fault but lest, the path + once reached and proceeded in, some other forbidden turning might come + into sight, we will say. In the letter, all ended <i>there</i>, just there + ... and you may think of that, and forgive; at all events, may avoid + speaking irrevocable words—and when, as to me, those words are + intensely <i>true, doom-words</i>—think, dearest! Because, as I told you + once, what most characterizes my feeling for you is the perfect + <i>respect</i> in it, the full <i>belief</i> ... (I shall get presently to poor + Robert's very avowal of 'owing you all esteem'!). It is on that I + build, and am secure—for how should I know, of myself, how to serve + you and be properly yours if it all was to be learnt by my own + interpreting, and what you professed to dislike you were to be + considered as wishing for, and what liking, as it seemed, you were + loathing at your heart, and if so many 'noes' made a 'yes,' and 'one + refusal no rebuff' and all that horrible bestiality which stout + gentlemen turn up the whites of their eyes to, when they rise after + dinner and pressing the right hand to the left side say, 'The toast be + dear woman!' Now, love, with this feeling in me from the beginning,—I + do believe,—<i>now</i>, when I am utterly blest in this gift of your love, + and least able to imagine what I should do without it,—I cannot but + believe, I say, that had you given me once a 'refusal'—clearly + derived from your own feelings, and quite apart from any fancied + consideration for my interests; had this come upon me, whether slowly + but inevitably in the course of events, or suddenly as precipitated by + any step of mine; I should, <i>believing you</i>, have never again renewed + directly or indirectly such solicitation; I should have begun to count + how many other ways were yet open to serve you and devote myself to + you ... but from <i>the outside</i>, now, and not in your livery! Now, if I + should have acted thus under <i>any</i> circumstances, how could I but + redouble my endeavours at precaution after my own foolish—you know, + and forgave long since, and I, too, am forgiven in my own eyes, for + the cause, though not the manner—but could I do other than keep + 'farther from you' than in the letters, dearest? For your own part in + that matter, seeing it with all the light you have since given me (and + <i>then</i>, not inadequately by my own light) I could, I do kiss your + feet, kiss every letter in your name, bless you with my whole heart + and soul if I could pour them out, from me, before you, to stay and be + yours; when I think on your motives and pure perfect generosity. It + was the plainness of <i>that</i> which determined me to wait and be patient + and grateful and your own for ever in any shape or capacity you might + please to accept. Do you think that because I am so rich now, I could + not have been most rich, too, <i>then</i>—in what would seem little only + to <i>me</i>, only with this great happiness? I should have been proud + beyond measure—happy past all desert, to call and be allowed to see + you simply, speak with you and be spoken to—what am I more than + others? Don't think this mock humility—<i>it is not</i>—you take me in + your mantle, and we shine together, but I know my part in it! All this + is written breathlessly on a sudden fancy that you <i>might</i>—if not + now, at some future time—give other than this, the true reason, for + that discrepancy you see, that nearness in the letters, that early + farness in the visits! And, love, all love is but a passionate + <i>drawing closer</i>—I would be one with you, dearest; let my soul press + close to you, as my lips, dear life of my life. +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday.</i>—You are entirely right about those poems of Horne's—I + spoke only of the effect of the first glance, and it is a principle + with me to begin by welcoming any strangeness, intention of + originality in men—the other way of safe copying precedents being + <i>so</i> safe! So I began by praising all that was at all questionable in + the form ... reserving the ground-work for after consideration. The + Elf-story turns out a pure mistake, I think—and a common mistake, + too. Fairy stories, the good ones, were written for men and women, + and, being true, pleased also children; now, people set about writing + for children and miss them and the others too,—with that detestable + irreverence and plain mocking all the time at the very wonder they + profess to want to excite. All obvious bending down to the lower + capacity, determining not to be the great complete man one is, by + half; any patronizing minute to be spent in the nursery over the books + and work and healthful play, of a visitor who will presently bid + good-bye and betake himself to the Beefsteak Club—keep us from all + that! The Sailor Language is good in its way; but as wrongly used in + Art as real clay and mud would be, if one plastered them in the + foreground of a landscape in order to attain to so much truth, at all + events—the true thing to endeavour is the making a golden colour + which shall do every good in the power of the dirty brown. Well, then, + what a veering weathercock am I, to write so and now, <i>so</i>! Not + altogether,—for first it was but the stranger's welcome I gave, the + right of every new comer who must stand or fall by his behaviour once + admitted within the door. And then—when I know what Horne thinks + of—you, dearest; how he knew you first, and from the soul admired + you; and how little he thinks of my good fortune ... I <i>could</i> <SPAN class="sc-ex">not</span> + begin by giving you a bad impression of anything he sends—he has such + very few rewards for a great deal of hard excellent enduring work, and + <i>none</i>, no reward, I do think, would he less willingly forego than + your praise and sympathy. But your opinion once expressed—truth + remains the truth—so, at least, I excuse myself ... and quite as much + for what I say <i>now</i> as for what was said <i>then</i>! 'King John' is very + fine and full of purpose; 'The Noble Heart,' sadly faint and + uncharacteristic. The chief incident, too, turns on that poor + conventional fallacy about what constitutes a proper wrong to + resist—a piece of morality, after a different standard, is introduced + to complete another fashioned morality—a segment of a circle of + larger dimensions is fitted into a smaller one. Now, you may have your + own standard of morality in this matter of resistance to wrong, how + and when if at all. And you may quite understand and sympathize with + quite different standards innumerable of other people; but go from one + to the other abruptly, you cannot, I think. 'Bear patiently all + injuries—revenge in no case'—that is plain. 'Take what you conceive + to be God's part, do his evident work, stand up for good and destroy + evil, and co-operate with this whole scheme here'—<i>that</i> is plain, + too,—but, call Otto's act <i>no</i> wrong, or being one, not such as + should be avenged—and then, call the remark of a stranger that one is + a 'recreant'—just what needs the slight punishment of instant death + to the remarker—and ... where is the way? What <i>is</i> clear? +</p> +<p> + —Not my letter! which goes on and on—'dear letters'—sweetest? + because they cost all the precious labour of making out? Well, I shall + see you to-morrow, I trust. Bless you, my own—I have not half said + what was to say even in the letter I thought to write, and which + proves only what you see! But at a thought I fly off with you, 'at a + cock-crow from the Grange.'—Ever your own. +</p> +<p> + Last night, I received a copy of the <i>New Quarterly</i>—now here is + popular praise, a sprig of it! Instead of the attack I supposed it to + be, from my foolish friend's account, the notice is outrageously + eulogistical, a stupidly extravagant laudation from first to last—and + in <i>three other</i> articles, as my sister finds by diligent fishing, + they introduce my name with the same felicitous praise (except one + instance, though, in a good article by Chorley I am certain); and + <i>with</i> me I don't know how many poetical <i>crétins</i> are praised as + noticeably—and, in the turning of a page, somebody is abused in the + richest style of scavengering—only Carlyle! And I love him enough not + to envy him nor wish to change places, and giving him mine, mount into + his. +</p> +<p> + All which, let me forget in the thoughts of to-morrow! Bless you, my + Ba. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + But some things are indeed said very truly, and as I like to read + them—of <i>you</i>, I mean of course,—though I quite understand that it + is doing no manner of good to go back so to 'Paracelsus,' heading the + article 'Paracelsus and other poems,' as if the other poems could not + front the reader broadly by a divine right of their own. 'Paracelsus' + is a great work and will <i>live</i>, but the way to do you good with the + stiffnecked public (such good as critics can do in their degree) would + have been to hold fast and conspicuously the gilded horn of the last + living crowned creature led by you to the altar, saying 'Look <i>here</i>.' + What had he to do else, as a critic? Was he writing for the + <i>Retrospective Review</i>? And then, no attempt at analytical + criticism—or a failure, at the least attempt! all slack and in + sentences! Still these are right things to say, true things, worthy + things, said of you as a poet, though your poems do not find justice: + and I like, for my own part, the issuing from my cathedral into your + great world—the outermost temple of divinest consecration. I like + that figure and association, and none the worse for its being a + sufficient refutation of what he dared to impute, of your poetical + sectarianism, in another place—<i>yours</i>! +</p> +<p> + For me, it is all quite kind enough—only I object, on my own part + also, to being reviewed in the 'Seraphim,' when my better books are + nearer: and also it always makes me a little savage when people talk + of Tennysonianisms! I have faults enough as the Muses know,—but let + them be <i>my</i> faults! When I wrote the 'Romaunt of Margret,' I had not + read a line of Tennyson. I came from the country with my eyes only + half open, and he had not penetrated where I had been living and + sleeping: and in fact when I afterwards tried to reach him here in + London, nothing could be found except one slim volume, so that, till + the collected works appeared ... <i>favente</i> Moxon, ... I was ignorant + of his best <i>early</i> productions; and not even for the rhythmetical + form of my 'Vision of the Poets,' was I indebted to the 'Two + Voices,'—three pages of my 'Vision' having been written several years + ago—at the beginning of my illness—and thrown aside, and taken up + again in the spring of 1844. Ah, well! there's no use talking! In a + solitary review which noticed my 'Essay on Mind,' somebody wrote ... + 'this young lady imitates Darwin'—and I never could <i>read</i> Darwin, + ... was stopped always on the second page of the 'Loves of the Plants' + when I tried to read him to 'justify myself in having an opinion'—the + repulsion was too strong. Yet the 'young lady imitated Darwin' of + course, as the infallible critic said so. +</p> +<p> + And who are Mr. Helps and Miss Emma Fisher and the 'many others,' + whose company brings one down to the right plebeianism? The 'three + poets in three distant ages born' may well stare amazed! +</p> +<p> + After all you shall not by any means say that I upset the inkstand on + your review in a passion—because pray mark that the ink has over-run + some of your praises, and that if I had been angry to the overthrow of + an inkstand, it would not have been precisely <i>there</i>. It is the + second book spoilt by me within these two days—and my fingers were so + dabbled in blackness yesterday that to wring my hands would only have + made matters worse. Holding them up to Mr. Kenyon they looked dirty + enough to befit a poetess—as black 'as bard beseemed'—and he took + the review away with him to read and save it from more harm. +</p> +<p> + How could it be that you did not get my letter which would have + reached you, I thought, on Monday evening, or on Tuesday at the very + very earliest?—and how is it that I did not hear from you last night + again when I was unreasonable enough to expect it? is it true that you + <i>hate</i> writing to me? +</p> +<p> + At that word, comes the review back from dear Mr. Kenyon, and the + letter which I enclose to show you how it accounts reasonably for the + ink—I did it 'in a pet,' he thinks! And I ought to buy you a new + book—certainly I ought—only it is not worth doing justice for—and I + shall therefore send it back to you spoilt as it is; and you must + forgive me as magnanimously as you can. +</p> +<p> + 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico'—do you think <i>so</i>? I hope not indeed! + <i>vo quietando</i>—and everything else that I ought to do—except of + course, <i>that</i> thinking of you which is so difficult. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. Till to-morrow! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own always. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon refers to 'Festus'—of which I had said that the fine + things were worth looking for, in the design manqué. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, January 9, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You never think, ever dearest, that I 'repent'—why what a word to + use! You never could <i>think</i> such a word for a moment! If you were to + leave me even,—to decide that it is best for you to do it, and do + it,—I should accede at once of course, but never should I nor could I + 'repent' ... regret anything ... be sorry for having known you and + loved you ... no! Which I say simply to prove that, in <i>no</i> extreme + case, could I repent for my own sake. For yours, it might be + different. +</p> +<p> + <i>Not</i> out of 'generosity' certainly, but from the veriest selfishness, + I choose here, before God, any possible present evil, rather than the + future consciousness of feeling myself less to you, on the whole, than + another woman might have been. +</p> +<p> + Oh, these vain and most heathenish repetitions—do I not vex you by + them, <i>you</i> whom I would always please, and never vex? Yet they force + their way because you are the best noblest and dearest in the world, + and because your happiness is so precious a thing. +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Cloth of frieze, be not too bold,<br> +Though thou'rt matched with cloth of gold! +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">—<i>that</i>, beloved, was written for <i>me</i>. And you, if you would make me + happy, <i>always</i> will look at yourself from my ground and by my light, + as I see you, and consent to be selfish in all things. Observe, that + if I were <i>vacillating</i>, I should not be so weak as to tease you with + the process of the vacillation: I should wait till my pendulum ceased + swinging. It is precisely because I am your own, past any retraction + or wish of retraction,—because I belong to you by gift and ownership, + and am ready and willing to prove it before the world at a word of + yours,—it is precisely for this, that I remind you too often of the + necessity of using this right of yours, not to your injury, of being + wise and strong for both of us, and of guarding your happiness which + is mine. I have said these things ninety and nine times over, and over + and over have you replied to them,—as yesterday!—and now, do not + speak any more. It is only my preachment for general use, and not for + particular application,—only to be <i>ready</i> for application. I love + you from the deepest of my nature—the whole world is nothing to me + beside you—and what is so precious, is not far from being terrible. + 'How <i>dreadful</i> is this place.' +</p> +<p> + To hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought for + to-day,—it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word. + It is true, I think, that we see things (things apart from ourselves) + under the same aspect and colour—and it is certainly true that I have + a sort of instinct by which I seem to know your views of such subjects + as we have never looked at together. I know <i>you</i> so well (yes, I + boast to myself of that intimate knowledge), that I seem to know also + the <i>idola</i> of all things as they are in your eyes—so that never, + scarcely, I am curious,—never anxious, to learn what your opinions + may be. Now, <i>have</i> I been curious or anxious? It was enough for me to + know <i>you</i>. +</p> +<p> + More than enough! You have 'left undone'—do you say? On the contrary, + you have done too much,—you <i>are</i> too much. My cup,—which used to + hold at the bottom of it just the drop of Heaven dew mingling with the + absinthus,—has overflowed all this wine: and <i>that</i> makes me look out + for the vases, which would have held it better, had you stretched out + your hand for them. +</p> +<p> + Say how you are—and do take care and exercise—and write to me, + dearest! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own—</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + How right you are about 'Ben Capstan,'—and the illustration by the + <i>yellow clay</i>. That is precisely what I meant,—said with more + precision than I could say it. Art without an ideal is neither nature + nor art. The question involves the whole difference between Madame + Tussaud and Phidias. +</p> +<p> + I have just received Mr. Edgar Poe's book—and I see that the + deteriorating preface which was to have saved me from the vanity-fever + produceable by the dedication, is cut down and away—perhaps in this + particular copy only! +</p> +<p> + Tuesday is so near, as men count, that I caught myself just now being + afraid lest the week should have no chance of appearing long to you! + Try to let it be long to you—will you? My consistency is wonderful. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning. +</p> +<p> + As if I could deny you anything! Here is the Review—indeed it was + foolish to mind your seeing it at all. But now, may I stipulate?—You + shall not send it back—but on your table I shall find and take it + next Tuesday—<i>c'est convenu</i>! The other precious volume has not yet + come to hand (nor to foot) all through your being so sure that to + carry it home would have been the death of me last evening! +</p> +<p> + I cannot write my feelings in this large writing, begun on such a + scale for the Review's sake; and just now—there is no denying it, and + spite of all I have been incredulous about—it does seem that the fact + <i>is</i> achieved and that I <i>do</i> love you, plainly, surely, more than + ever, more than any day in my life before. It is your secret, the why, + the how; the experience is mine. What are you doing to me?—in the + heart's heart. +</p> +<p> + Rest—dearest—bless you— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 10, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Kindest and dearest you are!—that is 'my secret' and for the others, + I leave them to you!—only it is no secret that I should and must be + glad to have the words you sent with the book,—which I should have + seen at all events be sure, whether you had sent it or not. Should I + not, do you think? And considering what the present generation of + critics really is, the remarks on you may stand, although it is the + dreariest impotency to complain of the want of flesh and blood and of + human sympathy in general. Yet suffer them to say on—it is the stamp + on the critical knife. There must be something eminently stupid, or + farewell criticdom! And if anything more utterly untrue could be said + than another, it is precisely that saying, which Mr. Mackay stands up + to catch the reversion of! Do you indeed suppose that Heraud could + have done this? I scarcely can believe it, though some things are said + rightly as about the 'intellectuality,' and how you stand first by the + brain,—which is as true as truth can be. Then, I <i>shall have + 'Pauline' in a day or two</i>—yes, I shall and must, and <i>will</i>. +</p> +<p> + The 'Ballad Poems and Fancies,' the article calling itself by that + name, seems indeed to be Mr. Chorley's, and is one of his very best + papers, I think. There is to me a want of colour and thinness about + his writings in general, with a grace and <i>savoir faire</i> nevertheless, + and always a rightness and purity of intention. Observe what he says + of 'many-sidedness' seeming to trench on opinion and principle. That, + he means for himself I know, for he has said to me that through having + such largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of + principle—yet 'many-sidedness' is certainly no word for him. The + effect of general sympathies may be evolved both from an elastic fancy + and from breadth of mind, and it seems to me that he rather <i>bends</i> to + a phase of humanity and literature than contains it—than comprehends + it. Every part of a truth implies the whole; and to accept truth all + round, does not mean the recognition of contradictory things: + universal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but, on the + contrary, sublimely consistent. A church tower may stand between the + mountains and the sea, looking to either, and stand fast: but the + willow-tree at the gable-end, blown now toward the north and now + toward the south while its natural leaning is due east or west, is + different altogether ... <i>as</i> different as a willow-tree from a church + tower. +</p> +<p> + Ah, what nonsense! There is only one truth for me all this time, while + I talk about truth and truth. And do you know, when you have told me + to think of you, I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so + much, of thinking of only you—which <i>is</i> too much, perhaps. Shall I + tell you? it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever before to + any woman what you are to me—the fulness must be in proportion, you + know, to the vacancy ... and only <i>I</i> know what was behind—the long + wilderness <i>without</i> the blossoming rose ... and the capacity for + happiness, like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. Is + it wonderful that I should stand as in a dream, and disbelieve—not + <i>you</i>—but my own fate? Was ever any one taken suddenly from a + lampless dungeon and placed upon the pinnacle of a mountain, without + the head turning round and the heart turning faint, as mine do? And + you love me <i>more</i>, you say?—Shall I thank you or God? + Both,—indeed—and there is no possible return from me to either of + you! I thank you as the unworthy may ... and as we all thank God. How + shall I ever prove what my heart is to you? How will you ever see it + as I feel it? I ask myself in vain. +</p> +<p> + Have so much faith in me, my only beloved, as to use me simply for + your own advantage and happiness, and to your own ends without a + thought of any others—<i>that</i> is all I could ask you with any disquiet + as to the granting of it—May God bless you!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + But you have the review <i>now</i>—surely? +</p> +<p> + The <i>Morning Chronicle</i> attributes the authorship of 'Modern Poets' + (<i>our</i> article) to Lord John Manners—so I hear this morning. I have + not yet looked at the paper myself. The <i>Athenæum</i>, still abominably + dumb!— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 10, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + This is <i>no</i> letter—love,—I make haste to tell you—to-morrow I will + write. For here has a friend been calling and consuming my very + destined time, and every minute seemed the last that was to be; and an + old, old friend he is, beside—so—you must understand my defection, + when only this scrap reaches you to-night! Ah, love,—you are my + unutterable blessing,—I discover you, more of you, day by day,—hour + by hour, I do think!—I am entirely yours,—one gratitude, all my soul + becomes when I see you over me as now—God bless my dear, dearest. +</p> +<p> + My 'Act Fourth' is done—but too roughly this time! I will tell you— +</p> +<p> + One kiss more, dearest! +</p> +<p> + Thanks for the Review. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 12, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I have no words for you, my dearest,—I shall never have. +</p> +<p> + You are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said ... + that I must love you more than at first ... a little sign, and to be + looked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows + <i>can</i> only be little, so very little now—and as the fine French + Chemical Analysts bring themselves to appreciate matter in its refined + stages by <i>millionths</i>, so—! At first I only thought of being <i>happy</i> + in you,—in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours + that must come—I shall grow old with you, and die with you—as far as + I can look into the night I see the light with me. And surely with + that provision of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed + sense of security to the sunny middle of the day. I am in the full + sunshine now; and <i>after</i>, all seems cared for,—is it too homely an + illustration if I say the day's visit is not crossed by uncertainties + as to the return through the wild country at nightfall?—Now Keats + speaks of 'Beauty, that must <i>die</i>—and Joy whose hand is ever at his + lips, bidding farewell!' And <i>who</i> spoke of—looking up into the eyes + and asking 'And <i>how long</i> will you love us'?—There is a Beauty that + will not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will + love for ever! +</p> +<p> + And <i>I</i>—am to love no longer than I can. Well, dear—and when I <i>can</i> + no longer—you will not blame me? You will do only as ever, kindly and + justly; hardly more. I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my + fancy to such an experiment, and consider how <i>that</i> is to happen, and + what measures ought to be taken in the emergency—because in the + 'universality of my sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one + with my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a + spectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis. There is no doubt + I should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more + fortunate human being. And I hope that because such a calamity does + not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no + less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no + humanity can be altogether exempt—just as God bids us ask for the + continuance of the 'daily bread'!—'battle, murder and sudden death' + lie behind doubtless. I repeat, and perhaps in so doing only give one + more example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we + bestow in another's case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our + own, ... that I only contemplate the <i>possibility</i> you make me + recognize, with pity, and fear ... no anger at all; and imprecations + of vengeance, <i>for what</i>? Observe, I only speak of cases <i>possible</i>; + of sudden impotency of mind; that <i>is</i> possible—there <i>are</i> other + ways of '<i>changing</i>,' 'ceasing to love' &c. which it is safest not to + think of nor believe in. A man <i>may</i> never leave his writing desk + without seeing safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs + the disposal of his papers in the event of his reason suddenly leaving + him—or he may never go out into the street without a card in his + pocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up in + an apoplectic fit—but if he once begins to fear he is growing a glass + bottle, and, <i>so</i>, liable to be smashed,—do you see? And now, love, + dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba—see no more—see what I <i>am</i>, + what God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as + I, received already so much; much, past expression! It is but—if you + will so please—at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my + sake; but you <i>will</i> be as sure of me <i>one</i> day as I can be now of + myself—and why not <i>now</i> be sure? See, love—a year is gone by—we + were in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter 'Do not say + I do not tire you' (by writing)—'<i>I am sure I do</i>.' A year has gone + by—<i>Did you tire me then?</i> <i>Now</i>, you tell me what is told; for my + sake, sweet, let the few years go by; we are married, and my arms are + round you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, '<i>Were you + not</i> to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy behind all joys, a + life added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the + possible gifts of God on this earth, for which I seemed to have lived; + which accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what + they can; what, it is very likely, they esteem more—for why should my + eye be evil because God's is good; why should I grudge that, giving + them, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the + inferior good and belief in its worth? I should have wished <i>that</i> + further concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their + sakes—but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only + tribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to pay. Hear this said + <i>now before</i> the few years; and believe in it <i>now for then</i>, dearest! +</p> +<p> + Must you see 'Pauline'? At least then let me wait a few days; to + correct the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the + history of it; what is necessary you should know before you see it. + That article I suppose to be by Heraud—about two thirds—and the + rest, or a little less, by that Mr. Powell—whose unimaginable, + impudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the 'Story from + Boccaccio'—of which the <i>words</i> quoted were <i>his</i>, I am sure—as sure + as that he knows not whether Boccaccio lived before or after + Shakspeare, whether Florence or Rome be the more northern city,—one + word of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio's in particular. + When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a + sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a <i>buyer</i> of other + men's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he <i>bought</i> two + modernisations of Chaucer—'Ugolino' and another story from Leigh + Hunt—and one, 'Sir Thopas' from Horne, and printed them as his own, + as I learned only last week. He paid me extravagant court and, seeing + no harm in the mere folly of the man, I was on good terms with him, + till ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of mine who had + written an article for the Review—(which is as good as <i>his</i>, he + being a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing + the voices of his co-mates in council)—well, he insulted my friend, + who had written that article at my special solicitation, and did all + he could to avoid paying the price of it—Why?—Because the poor + creature had actually taken the article to the Editor <i>as one by his + friend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell the + aforesaid</i>,—cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes + of Printer and Publisher! Now I was away all this time in Italy or he + would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence. + And my friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of + 'practice,' in the American sense, held his peace and went without his + 'honorarium.' But on my return, I enquired, and made him make a + proper application, which Mr. Powell treated with all the insolence in + the world—because, as the event showed, the having to write a cheque + for 'the Author of <i>the</i> Article'—that author's name <i>not</i> being + Talfourd's ... <i>there</i> was certain disgrace! Since then (ten months + ago) I have never seen him—and he accuses <i>himself</i>, observe, of + 'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'—one as much as the other! + And now why do I tell you this, all of it? Ah,—now you shall hear! + Because, it has often been in my mind to ask you what <i>you</i> know of + this Mr. Powell, or ever knew. For he, (being profoundly versed in + every sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me, and the + rest of his acquaintance) he told me long ago, 'he used to correspond + with you, and that he quarrelled with you'—which I supposed to mean + that he began by sending you his books (as with one and everybody) and + that, in return to your note of acknowledgment, he had chosen to write + again, and perhaps, again—is it so? Do not write one word in answer + to me—the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought + not to have a place in your letters—and <i>that way</i> he would get near + to me again; near indeed this time!—So <i>tell</i> me, in a word—or do + not tell me. +</p> +<p> + How I never say what I sit down to say! How saying the little makes me + want to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as + a thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and + commentaries; all is of importance to me—every breath you breathe, + every little fact (like this) you are to know! +</p> +<p> + I was out last night—to see the rest of Frank Talfourd's theatricals; + and met Dickens and his set—so my evenings go away! If I do not bring + the <i>Act</i> you must forgive me—yet I shall, I think; the roughness + matters little in this stage. Chorley says very truly that a tragedy + implies as much power <i>kept back</i> as brought out—very true that is. I + do not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied—as was to be but + expected—with the effect of this last—the <i>shelve</i> of the hill, + whence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it, so that at + the very last you may pass off into a plain and so away—not come to a + stop like your horse against a church wall. It is all in long + speeches—the <i>action, proper</i>, is in them—they are no descriptions, + or amplifications—but here, in a drama of this kind, all the + <i>events</i>, (and interest), take place in the <i>minds</i> of the actors ... + somewhat like 'Paracelsus' in that respect. You know, or don't know, + that the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I + thought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt, + spasmodic writing—they will find some fault with this, of course. +</p> +<p> + How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing + now here now there—precisely! I wish he minded the <i>Athenæum</i>, its + silence or eloquence, no more nor less than I—but he goes on + painfully plying me with invitation after invitation, only to show me, + I feel confident, that <i>he</i> has no part nor lot in the matter: I have + <i>two</i> kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Saturday. See + the absurd position of us both; he asks more of my presence than he + can want, just to show his own kind feeling, of which I do not doubt; + and I must try and accept more hospitality than suits me, only to + prove my belief in that same! For myself—if I have vanity which such + Journals can raise; would the praise of them raise it, they who + praised Mr. Mackay's own, own 'Dead Pan,' quite his own, the other + day?—By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other evening that the + gentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ... 'singularly + like Schiller's; <i>considering that Mr. M. had never</i> seen it!' I am + told he writes for the <i>Athenæum</i>, but don't know. Would that sort of + praise be flattering, or his holding the tongue—which Forster, deep + in the mysteries of the craft, corroborated my own notion about—as + pure willingness to hurt, and confessed impotence and little clever + spite, and enforced sense of what may be safe at the last? You shall + see they will not notice—unless a fresh publication alters the + circumstances—until some seven or eight months—as before; and then + they <i>will</i> notice, and <i>praise</i>, and tell anybody who cares to + enquire, '<i>So</i> we noticed the work.' So do not you go expecting + justice or injustice till I tell you. It answers me to be found + writing so, so anxious to prove I understand the laws of the game, + when that game is only 'Thimble-rig' and for prizes of + gingerbread-nuts—Prize or no prize, Mr. Dilke <i>does</i> shift the pea, + and so did from the beginning—as Charles Lamb's pleasant <i>sobriquet</i> + (Mr. <i>Bilk</i>, he would have it) testifies. Still he behaved kindly to + that poor Frances Brown—let us forget him. +</p> +<p> + And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer—I am with you + again and out of them all—there, <i>here</i>, in my arms, is my <i>proved + palpable success</i>! My life, my poetry, gained nothing, oh no!—but + this found them, and blessed them. On Tuesday I shall see you, + dearest—am much better; well to-day—are you well—or 'scarcely to be + called an invalid'? Oh, when I <i>have</i> you, am by you— +</p> +<p> + Bless you, dearest—And be very sure you have your wish about the + length of the week—still Tuesday must come! And with it your own, + happy, grateful +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, January 14, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah Mr. Kenyon!—how he vexed me to-day. To keep away all the ten days + before, and to come just at the wrong time after all! It was better + for you, I suppose—believe—to go with him down-stairs—yes, it + certainly was better: it was disagreeable enough to be very wise! Yet + I, being addicted to every sort of superstition turning to melancholy, + did hate so breaking off in the middle of that black thread ... (do + you remember what we were talking of when they opened the door?) that + I was on the point of saying 'Stay one moment,' which I should have + repented afterwards for the best of good reasons. Oh, I <i>should</i> have + liked to have 'fastened off' that black thread, and taken one stitch + with a blue or a green one! +</p> +<p> + You do not remember what we were talking of? what <i>you</i>, rather, were + talking of? And what <i>I</i> remember, at least, because it is exactly the + most unkind and hard thing you ever said to me—ever dearest, so I + remember it by that sign! That you should say such a thing to me—! + think what it was, for indeed I will not write it down here—it would + be worse than Mr. Powell! Only the foolishness of it (I mean, the + foolishness of it alone) saves it, smooths it to a degree!—the + foolishness being the same as if you asked a man where he would walk + when he lost his head. Why, if you had asked St. Denis <i>beforehand</i>, + he would have thought it a foolish question. +</p> +<p> + And you!—you, who talk so finely of never, never doubting; of being + such an example in the way of believing and trusting—it appears, + after all, that you have an imagination apprehensive (or + comprehensive) of 'glass bottles' like other sublunary creatures, and + worse than some of them. For mark, that I never went any farther than + to the stone-wall hypothesis of your forgetting me!—<i>I</i> always + stopped there—and never climbed, to the top of it over the + broken-bottle fortification, to see which way you meant to walk + afterwards. And you, to ask me so coolly—think what you asked me. + That you should have the heart to ask such a question! +</p> +<p> + And the reason—! and it could seem a reasonable matter of doubt to + you whether I would go to the south for my health's sake!—And I + answered quite a common 'no' I believe—for you bewildered me for the + moment—and I have had tears in my eyes two or three times since, just + through thinking back of it all ... of your asking me such questions. + Now did I not tell you when I first knew you, that I was leaning out + of the window? True, <i>that</i> was—I was tired of living ... + unaffectedly tired. All I cared to live for was to do better some of + the work which, after all, was out of myself, and which I had to reach + across to do. But I told you. Then, last year, for duty's sake I would + have <i>consented</i> to go to Italy! but if you really fancy that I would + have struggled in the face of all that difficulty—or struggled, + indeed, anywise, to compass such an object as <i>that</i>—except for the + motive of your caring for it and me—why you know nothing of me after + all—nothing! And now, take away the motive, and I am where I + was—leaning out of the window again. To put it in plainer words (as + you really require information), I should let them do what they liked + to me till I was dead—only I <i>wouldn't go to Italy</i>—if anybody + proposed Italy out of contradiction. In the meantime I do entreat you + never to talk of such a thing to me any more. +</p> +<p> + You know, if you were to leave me by your choice and for your + happiness, it would be another thing. It would be very lawful to talk + of <i>that</i>. +</p> +<p> + And observe! I perfectly understand that you did not think of + <i>doubting me</i>—so to speak! But you thought, all the same, that if + such a thing happened, I should be capable of doing so and so. +</p> +<p> + Well—I am not quarrelling—I am uneasy about your head rather. That + pain in it—what can it mean? I do beseech you to think of me just so + much as will lead you to take regular exercise every day, never + missing a day; since to walk till you are tired on Tuesday and then + not to walk at all until Friday is <i>not</i> taking exercise, nor the + thing required. Ah, if you knew how dreadfully natural every sort of + evil seems to my mind, you would not laugh at me for being afraid. I + do beseech you, dearest! And then, Sir John Hanmer invited you, + besides Mr. Warburton, and suppose you went to <i>him</i> for a very little + time—just for the change of air? or if you went to the coast + somewhere. Will you consider, and do what is right, <i>for me</i>? I do not + propose that you should go to Italy, observe, nor any great thing at + which you might reasonably hesitate. And—did you ever try smoking as + a remedy? If the nerves of the head chiefly are affected it might do + you good, I have been thinking. Or without the smoking, to breathe + where tobacco is burnt,—<i>that</i> calms the nervous system in a + wonderful manner, as I experienced once myself when, recovering from + an illness, I could not sleep, and tried in vain all sorts of + narcotics and forms of hop-pillow and inhalation, yet was + tranquillized in one half hour by a <i>pinch</i> of <i>tobacco</i> being burnt + in a shovel near me. Should you mind it very much? the trying I mean? +</p> +<p> + <i>Wednesday.</i>—For '<i>Pauline</i>'—when I had named it to you I was on the + point of sending for the book to the booksellers—then suddenly I + thought to myself that I should wait and hear whether you very, very + much would dislike my reading it. See now! Many readers have done + virtuously, but <i>I</i>, (in this virtue I tell you of) surpassed them + all!—And now, because I may, I '<i>must</i> read it':—and as there are + misprints to be corrected, will you do what is necessary, or what you + think is necessary, and bring me the book on Monday? Do not + send—bring it. In the meanwhile I send back the review which I forgot + to give to you yesterday in the confusion. Perhaps you have not read + it in your house, and in any case there is no use in my keeping it. +</p> +<p> + Shall I hear from you, I wonder! Oh my vain thoughts, that will not + keep you well! And, ever since you have known me, you have been + worse—<i>that</i>, you confess!—and what if it should be the crossing of + my bad star? <i>You</i> of the 'Crown' and the 'Lyre,' to seek influences + from the 'chair of Cassiopeia'! I hope she will forgive me for using + her name so! I might as well have compared her to a professorship of + poetry in the university of Oxford, according to the latest election. + You know, the qualification, there, is,—<i>not to be a poet</i>. +</p> +<p> + How vexatious, yesterday! The stars (talking of <i>them</i>) were out of + spherical tune, through the damp weather, perhaps, and that scarlet + sun was a sign! First Mr. Chorley!—and last, dear Mr. Kenyon; who + <i>will</i> say tiresome things without any provocation. Did you walk with + him his way, or did he walk with you yours? or did you only walk + down-stairs together? +</p> +<p> + Write to me! Remember that it is a month to Monday. Think of your very + own, who bids God bless you when she prays best for herself!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">E.B.B. +</p> +<p> + Say particularly how you are—now do not omit it. And will you have + Miss Martineau's books when I can lend them to you? Just at this + moment I <i>dare</i> not, because they are reading them here. +</p> +<p> + Let Mr. Mackay have his full proprietary in his 'Dead Pan'—which is + quite a different conception of the subject, and executed in blank + verse too. I have no claims against him, I am sure! +</p> +<p> + But for the <i>man</i>!—To call him a poet! A prince and potentate of + Commonplaces, such as he is!—I have seen his name in the <i>Athenæum</i> + attached to a lyric or two ... poems, correctly called fugitive,—more + than usually fugitive—but I never heard before that his hand was in + the prose department. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 14, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Was I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr. Kenyon? I <i>well knew + and felt</i> the price I was about to pay—but the thought <i>did</i> occur + that he might have been informed my probable time of departure was + that of his own arrival—and that he would not know how very soon, + alas, I should be <i>obliged</i> to go—so ... to save you any least + embarrassment in the world, I got—just that shake of the hand, just + that look—and no more! And was it all for nothing, all needless after + all? So I said to myself all the way home. +</p> +<p> + When I am away from you—a crowd of things press on me for + utterance—'I will say them, not write them,' I think:—when I see + you—all to be said seems insignificant, irrelevant,—'they can be + written, at all events'—I think <i>that</i> too. So, feeling so much, I + say so little! +</p> +<p> + I have just returned from Town and write for the Post—but <i>you</i> mean + to write, I trust. +</p> +<p> + <i>That</i> was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with, as last time! +</p> +<p> + How are you?—tell me, dearest; a long week is to be waited now! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am wholly your</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 15, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest, dearer to my heart minute by minute, I had no wish to give + you pain, God knows. No one can more readily consent to let a few + years more or less of life go out of account,—be lost—but as I sate + by you, you so full of the truest life, for this world as for the + next,—and was struck by the possibility, all that might happen were I + away, in the case of your continuing to acquiesce—dearest, it <i>is</i> + horrible—could not but speak. If in drawing you, all of you, closer + to my heart, I hurt you whom I would—<i>outlive</i> ... yes,—cannot speak + here—forgive me, Ba. +</p> +<p> + My Ba, you are to consider now for me. Your health, your strength, it + is all wonderful; that is not my dream, you know—but what all see. + Now, steadily care for us both—take time, take counsel if you choose; + but at the end tell me what you will do for your part—thinking of me + as utterly devoted, soul and body, to you, living wholly in your life, + seeing good and ill only as you see,—being yours as your hand is,—or + as your Flush, rather. Then I will, on my side, prepare. When I say + 'take counsel'—I reserve my last right, the man's right of first + speech. <i>I</i> stipulate, too, and require to say my own speech in my own + words or by letter—remember! But this living without you is too + tormenting now. So begin thinking,—as for Spring, as for a New Year, + as for a new life. +</p> +<p> + I went no farther than the door with Mr. Kenyon. He must see the + truth; and—you heard the playful words which had a meaning all the + same. +</p> +<p> + No more of this; only, think of it for me, love! +</p> +<p> + One of these days I shall write a long letter—on the omitted matters, + unanswered questions, in your past letters. The present joy still + makes me ungrateful to the previous one; but I remember. We are to + live together one day, love! +</p> +<p> + Will you let Mr. Poe's book lie on the table on Monday, if you please, + that I may read what he <i>does</i> say, with my own eyes? <i>That</i> I meant + to ask, too! +</p> +<p> + How too, too kind you are—how you care for so little that affects me! + I am very much better—I went out yesterday, as you found: to-day I + shall walk, beside seeing Chorley. And certainly, certainly I would go + away for a week, if so I might escape being ill (and away from you) a + fortnight; but I am <i>not</i> ill—and will care, as you bid me, beloved! + So, you will send, and take all trouble; and all about that crazy + Review! Now, you should not!—I will consider about your goodness. I + hardly know if I care to read that kind of book just now. +</p> +<p> + Will you, and must you have 'Pauline'? If I could pray you to revoke + that decision! For it is altogether foolish and <i>not</i> boylike—and I + shall, I confess, hate the notion of running over it—yet commented + it must be; more than mere correction! I was unluckily + <i>precocious</i>—but I had rather you <i>saw</i> real infantine efforts + (verses at six years old, and drawings still earlier) than this + ambiguous, feverish—Why not wait? When you speak of the + 'Bookseller'—I smile, in glorious security—having a whole bale of + sheets at the house-top. He never knew my name even!—and I withdrew + these after a very little time. +</p> +<p> + And now—here is a vexation. May I be with you (for this once) next + Monday, at <i>two</i> instead of <i>three</i> o'clock? Forster's business with + the new Paper obliges him, he says, to restrict his choice of days to + <i>Monday</i> next—and give up <i>my</i> part of Monday I will never for fifty + Forsters—now, sweet, mind that! Monday is no common day, but leads to + a <i>Saturday</i>—and if, as I ask, I get leave to call at 2—and to stay + till 3-1/2—though I then lose nearly half an hour—yet all will be + comparatively well. If there is any difficulty—one word and I + re-appoint our party, his and mine, for the day the paper breaks + down—not so long to wait, it strikes me! +</p> +<p> + Now, bless you, my precious Ba—I am your own— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">—Your own R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, January 17, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Our letters have crossed; and, mine being the longest, I have a right + to expect another directly, I think. I have been calculating: and it + seems to me—now what I am going to say may take its place among the + paradoxes,—that I gain most by the short letters. Last week the only + long one came last, and I was quite contented that the 'old friend' + should come to see you on Saturday and make you send me two instead of + the single one I looked for: it was a clear gain, the little short + note, and the letter arrived all the same. I remember, when I was a + child, liking to have two shillings and sixpence better than half a + crown—and now it is the same with this fairy money, which will never + turn all into pebbles, or beans, whatever the chronicles may say of + precedents. +</p> +<p> + Arabel did tell Mr. Kenyon (she told me) that 'Mr. Browning would soon + go away'—in reply to an observation of his, that 'he would not stay + as I had company'; and altogether it was better,—the lamp made it + look late. But you do not appear in the least remorseful for being + tempted of my black devil, my familiar, to ask such questions and + leave me under such an impression—'mens conscia recti' too!!— +</p> +<p> + And Mr. Kenyon will not come until next Monday perhaps. How am I? But + I am too well to be asked about. Is it not a warm summer? The weather + is as 'miraculous' as the rest, I think. It is you who are unwell and + make people uneasy, dearest. Say how you are, and promise me to do + what is right and try to be better. The walking, the changing of the + air, the leaving off Luria ... do what is right, I earnestly beseech + you. The other day, I heard of Tennyson being ill again, ... too ill + to write a simple note to his friend Mr. Venables, who told George. A + little more than a year ago, it would have been no worse a thing to me + to hear of your being ill than to hear of his being ill!—How the + world has changed since then! To <i>me</i>, I mean. +</p> +<p> + Did I say <i>that</i> ever ... that 'I knew you must be tired?' And it was + not even so true as that the coming event threw its shadow before? +</p> +<p> + <i>Thursday night.</i>—I have begun on another sheet—I could not write + here what was in my heart—yet I send you this paper besides to show + how I was writing to you this morning. In the midst of it came a + female friend of mine and broke the thread—the visible thread, that + is. +</p> +<p> + And now, even now, at this safe eight o'clock, I could not be safe + from somebody, who, in her goodnature and my illfortune, must come and + sit by me—and when my letter was come—'why wouldn't I read it? What + wonderful politeness on my part.' She would not and could not consent + to keep me from reading my letter. She would stand up by the fire + rather. +</p> +<p> + No, no, three times no. Brummel got into the carriage before the + Regent, ... (didn't he?) but I persisted in not reading my letter in + the presence of my friend. A notice on my punctiliousness may be put + down to-night in her 'private diary.' I kept the letter in my hand and + only read it with those sapient ends of the fingers which the + mesmerists make so much ado about, and which really did seem to touch + a little of what was inside. Not <i>all</i>, however, happily for me! Or my + friend would have seen in my eyes what <i>they</i> did not see. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you! Did I ever say that I had an objection to read the + verses at six years old—or see the drawings either? I am reasonable, + you observe! Only, 'Pauline,' I must have <i>some day</i>—why not without + the emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to wait a + little—if you promise <i>at last</i> to let me see the book, which I will + not show. Some day, then! you shall not be vexed nor hurried for the + day—some day. Am I not generous? And <i>I</i> was 'precocious' too, and + used to make rhymes over my bread and milk when I was nearly a baby + ... only really it was mere echo-verse, that of mine, and had nothing + of mark or of indication, such as I do not doubt that yours had. I + used to write of virtue with a large 'V,' and 'Oh Muse' with a harp, + and things of that sort. At nine years old I wrote what I called 'an + epic'—and at ten, various tragedies, French and English, which we + used to act in the nursery. There was a French 'hexameter' tragedy on + the subject of Regulus—but I cannot even smile to think of it now, + there are so many grave memories—which time has made grave—hung + around it. How I remember sitting in 'my house under the sideboard,' + in the dining-room, concocting one of the soliloquies beginning +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Que suis je? autrefois un général Remain:<br> +Maintenant esclave de Carthage je souffre en vain. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Poor Regulus!—Can't you conceive how fine it must have been + altogether? And these were my 'maturer works,' you are to understand, + ... and 'the moon was bright at ten o'clock at night' years before. As + to the gods and goddesses, I believed in them all quite seriously, and + reconciled them to Christianity, which I believed in too after a + fashion, as some greater philosophers have done—and went out one day + with my pinafore full of little sticks (and a match from the + housemaid's cupboard) to sacrifice to the blue-eyed Minerva who was my + favourite goddess on the whole because she cared for Athens. As soon + as I began to doubt about my goddesses, I fell into a vague sort of + general scepticism, ... and though I went on saying 'the Lord's + prayer' at nights and mornings, and the 'Bless all my kind friends' + afterwards, by the childish custom ... yet I ended this liturgy with a + supplication which I found in 'King's Memoirs' and which took my fancy + and met my general views exactly.... 'O God, if there be a God, save + my soul if I have a soul.' Perhaps the theology of many thoughtful + children is scarcely more orthodox than this: but indeed it is + wonderful to myself sometimes how I came to escape, on the whole, as + well as I have done, considering the commonplaces of education in + which I was set, with strength and opportunity for breaking the bonds + all round into liberty and license. Papa used to say ... 'Don't read + Gibbon's history—it's not a proper book. Don't read "Tom Jones"—and + none of the books on <i>this</i> side, mind!' So I was very obedient and + never touched the books on <i>that</i> side, and only read instead Tom + Paine's 'Age of Reason,' and Voltaire's 'Philosophical Dictionary,' + and Hume's 'Essays,' and Werther, and Rousseau, and Mary + Wollstonecraft ... books, which I was never suspected of looking + towards, and which were not 'on <i>that</i> side' certainly, but which did + as well. +</p> +<p> + How I am writing!—And what are the questions you did not answer? I + shall remember them by the answers I suppose—but your letters always + have a fulness to me and I never seem to wish for what is not in them. +</p> +<p> + But this is the end <i>indeed</i>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Night.<br> +[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest—how you can write touching things to me; and how my + whole being vibrates, as a string, to these! How have I deserved from + God and you all that I thank you for? Too unworthy I am of all! Only, + it was not, dearest beloved, what you feared, that was 'horrible,' it + was what you <i>supposed</i>, rather! It was a mistake of yours. And now we + will not talk of it any more. +</p> +<p> + <i>Friday morning.</i>—For the rest, I will think as you desire: but I + have thought a great deal, and there are certainties which I know; and + I hope we <i>both</i> are aware that nothing can be more hopeless than our + position in some relations and aspects, though you do not guess + perhaps that the very approach to the subject is shut up by dangers, + and that from the moment of a suspicion entering <i>one</i> mind, we should + be able to meet never again in this room, nor to have intercourse by + letter through the ordinary channel. I mean, that letters of yours, + addressed to me here, would infallibly be stopped and destroyed—if + not opened. Therefore it is advisable to hurry on nothing—on these + grounds it is advisable. What should I do if I did not see you nor + hear from you, without being able to feel that it was for your + happiness? What should I do for a month even? And then, I might be + thrown out of the window or its equivalent—I look back shuddering to + the dreadful scenes in which poor Henrietta was involved who never + offended as I have offended ... years ago which seem as present as + to-day. She had forbidden the subject to be referred to until that + consent was obtained—and at a word she gave up all—at a word. In + fact she had no true attachment, as I observed to Arabel at the + time—a child never submitted more meekly to a revoked holiday. Yet + how she was made to suffer. Oh, the dreadful scenes! and only because + she had seemed to feel a little. I told you, I think, that there was + an obliquity—an eccentricity, or something beyond—on one class of + subjects. I hear how her knees were made to ring upon the floor, now! + she was carried out of the room in strong hysterics, and I, who rose + up to follow her, though I was quite well at that time and suffered + only by sympathy, fell flat down upon my face in a fainting-fit. + Arabel thought I was dead. +</p> +<p> + I have tried to forget it all—but now I must remember—and throughout + our intercourse <i>I have remembered</i>. It is necessary to remember so + much as to avoid such evils as are inevitable, and for this reason I + would conceal nothing from you. Do <i>you</i> remember, besides, that there + can be no faltering on my 'part,' and that, if I should remain well, + which is not proved yet, I will do for you what you please and as you + please to have it done. But there is time for considering! +</p> +<p> + Only ... as you speak of 'counsel,' I will take courage to tell you + that my <i>sisters know</i>, Arabel is in most of my confidences, and being + often in the room with me, taxed me with the truth long ago—she saw + that I was affected from some cause—and I told her. We are as safe + with both of them as possible ... and they thoroughly understand that + <i>if there should be any change it would not be your fault</i>.... I made + them understand that thoroughly. From themselves I have received + nothing but the most smiling words of kindness and satisfaction (I + thought I might tell you so much), they have too much tenderness for + me to fail in it now. My brothers, it is quite necessary not to draw + into a dangerous responsibility. I have felt that from the beginning, + and shall continue to feel it—though I hear and can observe that they + are full of suspicions and conjectures, which are never unkindly + expressed. I told you once that we held hands the faster in this house + for the weight over our heads. But the absolute <i>knowledge</i> would be + dangerous for my brothers: with my sisters it is different, and I + could not continue to conceal from <i>them</i> what they had under their + eyes; and then, Henrietta is in a like position. It was not wrong of + me to let them know it?—no? +</p> +<p> + Yet of what consequence is all this to the other side of the question? + What, if <i>you</i> should give pain and disappointment where you owe such + pure gratitude. But we need not talk of these things now. Only you + have more to consider than <i>I</i>, I imagine, while the future comes on. +</p> +<p> + Dearest, let me have my way in one thing: let me see you on <i>Tuesday</i> + instead of on Monday—on Tuesday at the old hour. Be reasonable and + consider. Tuesday is almost as near as the day before it; and on + Monday, I shall be hurried at first, lest Papa should be still in the + house, (no harm, but an excuse for nervousness: and I can't quote a + noble Roman as you can, to the praise of my conscience!) and <i>you</i> + will be hurried at last, lest you should not be in time for Mr. + Forster. On the other hand, I will not let you be rude to the <i>Daily + News</i>, ... no, nor to the <i>Examiner</i>. Come on Tuesday, then, instead + of Monday, and let us have the usual hours in a peaceable way,—and if + there is no obstacle,—that is, if Mr. Kenyon or some equivalent + authority should not take note of your being here on Tuesday, why you + can come again on the Saturday afterwards—I do not see the + difficulty. Are we agreed? On Tuesday, at three o'clock. Consider, + besides, that the Monday arrangement would hurry you in every manner, + and leave you fagged for the evening—no, I will not hear of it. Not + on my account, not on yours! +</p> +<p> + Think of me on Monday instead, and write before. Are not these two + lawful letters? And do not they deserve an answer? +</p> +<p> + My life was ended when I knew you, and if I survive myself it is for + your sake:—<i>that</i> resumes all my feelings and intentions in respect + to you. No 'counsel' could make the difference of a grain of dust in + the balance. It <i>is so</i>, and not otherwise. If you changed towards me, + it would be better for you I believe—and I should be only where I was + before. While you do <i>not</i> change, I look to you for my first + affections and my first duty—and nothing but your bidding me, could + make me look away. +</p> +<p> + In the midst of this, Mr. Kenyon came and I felt as if I could not + talk to him. No—he does not 'see how it is.' He may have passing + thoughts sometimes, but they do not stay long enough to produce—even + an opinion. He asked if you had been here long. +</p> +<p> + It may be wrong and ungrateful, but I do wish sometimes that the world + were away—even the good Kenyon-aspect of the world. +</p> +<p> + And so, once more—may God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am wholly yours— +</p> +<p> + <i>Tuesday</i>, remember! And say that you agree. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 17, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Did my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get to a book on the + forb—no, <i>un</i>forbidden shelf—wherein Voltaire pleases to say that + 'si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer'? I feel, after + reading these letters,—as ordinarily after seeing you, sweetest, or + hearing from you,—that if <i>marriage</i> did not exist, I should + infallibly <i>invent</i> it. I should say, no words, no <i>feelings</i> even, + do justice to the whole conviction and <i>religion</i> of my soul—and + though they may be suffered to represent some one minute's phase of + it, yet, in their very fulness and passion they do injustice to the + <i>unrepresented, other minute's</i>, depth and breadth of love ... which + let my whole life (I would say) be devoted to telling and proving and + exemplifying, if not in one, then in another way—let me have the + plain palpable power of this; the assured time for this ... something + of the satisfaction ... (but for the fantasticalness of the + illustration) ... something like the earnestness of some suitor in + Chancery if he could once get Lord Lyndhurst into a room with him, and + lock the door on them both, and know that his whole story <i>must</i> be + listened to now, and the 'rights of it,'—dearest, the love unspoken + now you are to hear 'in all time of our tribulation, in all time of + our wealth ... at the hour of death, and'— +</p> +<p> + If I did not <i>know</i> this was so,—nothing would have been said, or + sought for. Your friendship, the perfect pride in it, the wish for, + and eager co-operation in, your welfare, all that is different, and, + seen now, nothing. +</p> +<p> + I will care for it no more, dearest—I am wedded to you now. I believe + no human being could love you more—that thought consoles me for my + own imperfection—for when <i>that</i> does strike me, as so often it will, + I turn round on my pursuing self, and ask 'What if it were a claim + then, what is in Her, demanded rationally, equitably, in return for + what were in you—do you like <i>that</i> way!'—And I do <i>not</i>, Ba—you, + even, might not—when people everyday buy improveable ground, and + eligible sites for building, and don't want every inch filled up, + covered over, done to their hands! So take me, and make me what you + can and will—and though never to be <i>more</i> yours, yet more <i>like</i> + you, I may and must be—Yes, indeed—best, only love! +</p> +<p> + And am I not grateful to your sisters—entirely grateful for that + crowning comfort; it is 'miraculous,' too, if you please—for <i>you</i> + shall know me by finger-tip intelligence or any art magic of old or + new times—but they do not see me, know me—and must moreover be + jealous of you, chary of you, as the daughters of Hesperus, of + wonderers and wistful lookers up at the gold apple—yet instead of + 'rapidly levelling eager eyes'—they are indulgent? Then—shall I wish + capriciously they were <i>not</i> your sisters, not so near you, that there + might be a kind of grace in loving them for it'—but what grace can + there be when ... yes, I will tell you—<i>no</i>, I will not—it is + foolish!—and it is <i>not</i> foolish in me to love the table and chairs + and vases in your room. +</p> +<p> + Let me finish writing to-morrow; it would not become me to utter a + word against the arrangement—and Saturday promised, too—but though + all concludes against the early hour on Monday, yet—but this is + wrong—on Tuesday it shall be, then,—thank you, dearest! you let me + keep up the old proper form, do you not?—I shall continue to thank, + and be gratified &c. as if I had some untouched fund of thanks at my + disposal to cut a generous figure with on occasion! And so, now, for + your kind considerateness thank <i>you ... that I say</i>, which, God + knows, <i>could</i> not say, if I died ten deaths in one to do you good, + 'you are repaid'— +</p> +<p> + To-morrow I will write, and answer more. I am pretty well, and will go + out to-day—to-night. My Act is done, and copied—I will bring it. Do + you see the <i>Athenæum</i>? By Chorley surely—and kind and satisfactory. + I did not expect any notice for a long time—all that about the + 'mist,' 'unchanged manner' and the like is politic concession to the + Powers that Be ... because he might tell me that and much more with + his own lips or unprofessional pen, and be thanked into the bargain, + yet he does not. But I fancy he saves me from a rougher hand—the long + extracts answer every purpose— +</p> +<p> + There is all to say yet—to-morrow! +</p> +<p> + And ever, ever your own; God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<p> + Admire the clean paper.... I did not notice that I have been writing in + a desk where a candle fell! See the bottoms of the other pages! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, January 19, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You may have seen, I put off all the weighty business part of the + letter—but I shall do very little with it now. To be sure, a few + words will serve, because you understand me, and believe in <i>enough</i> + of me. First, then, I am wholly satisfied, thoroughly made happy in + your assurance. I would build up an infinity of lives, if I could plan + them, one on the other, and all resting on you, on your word—I fully + believe in it,—of my feeling, the gratitude, let there be no attempt + to speak. And for 'waiting'; 'not hurrying',—I leave all with you + henceforth—all you say is most wise, most convincing. +</p> +<p> + On the saddest part of all,—silence. You understand, and I can + understand through you. Do you know, that I never <i>used</i> to dream + unless indisposed, and rarely then—(of late I dream of you, but quite + of late)—and <i>those</i> nightmare dreams have invariably been of <i>one</i> + sort. I stand by (powerless to interpose by a word even) and see the + infliction of tyranny on the unresisting man or beast (generally the + last)—and I wake just in time not to die: let no one try this kind of + experiment on me or mine! Though I have observed that by a felicitous + arrangement, the man with the whip puts it into use with an old horse + commonly. I once knew a fine specimen of the boilingly passionate, + desperately respectable on the Eastern principle that reverences a + madman—and this fellow, whom it was to be death to oppose, (some + bloodvessel was to break)—he, once at a dinner party at which I was + present, insulted his wife (a young pretty simple believer in his + awful immunities from the ordinary terms that keep men in + order)—brought the tears into her eyes and sent her from the room ... + purely to 'show off' in the eyes of his guests ... (all males, + law-friends &c., he being a lawyer.) This feat accomplished, he, too, + left us with an affectation of compensating relentment, to 'just say a + word and return'—and no sooner was his back to the door than the + biggest, stupidest of the company began to remark 'what a fortunate + thing it was that Mr. So-and-so had such a submissive wife—not one of + the women who would resist—that is, attempt to resist—and so + exasperate our gentleman into ... Heaven only knew what!' I said it + <i>was</i>, in one sense, a fortunate thing; because one of these women, + without necessarily being the lion-tressed Bellona, would richly give + him his desert, I thought—'Oh, indeed?' No—<i>this</i> man was not to be + opposed—wait, you might, till the fit was over, and then try what + kind argument would do—and so forth to unspeakable nausea. Presently + we went up-stairs—there sate the wife with dried eyes, and a smile at + the tea-table—and by her, in all the pride of conquest, with her hand + in his, our friend—disposed to be very good-natured of course. I + listened <i>arrectis auribus</i>, and in a minute he said he did not know + somebody I mentioned. I told him, <i>that</i> I easily conceived—such a + person would never condescend to know <i>him</i>, &c., and treated him to + every consequence ingenuity could draw from that text—and at the end + marched out of the room; and the valorous man, who had sate like a + post, got up, took a candle, followed me to the door, and only said in + unfeigned wonder, 'What <i>can</i> have possessed you, my <i>dear</i> B?'—All + which I as much expected beforehand, as that the above mentioned man + of the whip keeps quiet in the presence of an ordinary-couraged dog. + All this is quite irrelevant to <i>the</i> case—indeed, I write to get rid + of the thought altogether. But I do hold it the most stringent duty of + all who can, to stop a condition, a relation of one human being to + another which God never allowed to exist between Him and ourselves. + <i>Trees</i> live and die, if you please, and accept will for a law—but + with us, all commands surely refer to a previously-implanted + conviction in ourselves of their rationality and justice. Or why + declare that 'the Lord <i>is</i> holy, just and good' unless there is + recognised and independent conception of holiness and goodness, to + which the subsequent assertion is referable? 'You know what <i>holiness</i> + is, what it is to be good? Then, He <i>is</i> that'—not, '<i>that</i> is + <i>so</i>—because <i>he</i> is that'; though, of course, when once the converse + is demonstrated, this, too, follows, and may be urged for practical + purposes. All God's urgency, so to speak, is on the <i>justice</i> of his + judgments, <i>rightness</i> of his rule: yet why? one might ask—if one + does believe that the rule <i>is</i> his; why ask further?—Because, his is + a 'reasonable service,' once for all. +</p> +<p> + Understand why I turn my thoughts in this direction. If it is indeed + as you fear, and no endeavour, concession, on my part will avail, + under any circumstances—(and by endeavour, I mean all heart and soul + could bring the flesh to perform)—in that case, you will not come to + me with a shadow past hope of chasing. +</p> +<p> + The likelihood is, I over frighten myself for you, by the involuntary + contrast with those here—you allude to them—if I went with this + letter downstairs and said simply 'I want this taken to the direction + to-night, and am unwell and unable to go, will you take it now?' my + father would not say a word, or rather would say a dozen cheerful + absurdities about his 'wanting a walk,' 'just having been wishing to + go out' &c. At night he sits studying my works—illustrating them (I + will bring you drawings to make you laugh)—and <i>yesterday</i> I picked + up a crumpled bit of paper ... 'his notion of what a criticism on this + last number ought to be,—none, that have appeared, satisfying + him!'—So judge of what he will say! And my mother loves me just as + much more as must of necessity be. +</p> +<p> + Once more, understand all this ... for the clock scares me of a + sudden—I meant to say more—far more. +</p> +<p> + But may God bless you ever—my own dearest, my Ba— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am wholly your R. +</p> +<p> + <i>(Tuesday)</i> +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 19, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Your letter came just after the hope of one had past—the latest + Saturday post had gone, they said, and I was beginning to be as vexed + as possible, looking into the long letterless Sunday. Then, suddenly + came the knock—the postman redivivus—just when it seemed so beyond + hoping for—it was half past eight, observe, and there had been a post + at nearly eight—suddenly came the knock, and your letter with it. Was + I not glad, do you think? +</p> +<p> + And you call the <i>Athenæum</i> 'kind and satisfactory'? Well—I was angry + instead. To make us wait so long for an 'article' like <i>that</i>, was not + over-kind certainly, nor was it 'satisfactory' to class your peculiar + qualities with other contemporary ones, as if they were not peculiar. + It seemed to me cold and cautious, from the causes perhaps which you + mention, but the extracts will work their own way with everybody who + knows what poetry is, and for others, let the critic do his worst with + them. For what is said of 'mist' I have no patience because I who know + when you are obscure and never think of denying it in some of your + former works, do hold that this last number is as clear and + self-sufficing to a common understanding, as far as the expression and + medium goes, as any book in the world, and that Mr. Chorley was bound + in verity to say so. If I except that one stanza, you know, it is to + make the general observation stronger. And then 'mist' is an infamous + word for your kind of obscurity. You never <i>are</i> misty, not even in + 'Sordello'—never vague. Your graver cuts deep sharp lines, + always—and there is an extra-distinctness in your images and + thoughts, from the midst of which, crossing each other infinitely, the + general significance seems to escape. So that to talk of a 'mist,' + when you are obscurest, is an impotent thing to do. Indeed it makes me + angry. +</p> +<p> + But the suggested virtue of 'self-renunciation' only made me smile, + because it is simply nonsense ... nonsense which proves itself to be + nonsense at a glance. So genius is to renounce itself—<i>that</i> is the + new critical doctrine, is it? Now is it not foolish? To recognize the + poetical faculty of a man, and then to instruct him in + 'self-renunciation' in that very relation—or rather, to hint the + virtue of it, and hesitate the dislike of his doing otherwise? What + atheists these critics are after all—and how the old heathens + understood the divinity of gifts better, beyond any comparison. We may + take shame to ourselves, looking back. +</p> +<p> + Now, shall I tell you what I did yesterday? It was so warm, so warm, + the thermometer at 68 in this room, that I took it into my head to + call it April instead of January, and put on a cloak and walked + down-stairs into the drawing-room—walked, mind! Before, I was carried + by one of my brothers,—even to the last autumn-day when I went out—I + never walked a step for fear of the cold in the passages. But + yesterday it was so wonderfully warm, and I so strong besides—it was + a feat worthy of the day—and I surprised them all as much as if I had + walked out of the window instead. That kind dear Stormie, who with all + his shyness and awkwardness has the most loving of hearts in him, said + that he was '<i>so</i> glad to see me'! +</p> +<p> + Well!—setting aside the glory of it, it would have been as wise + perhaps if I had abstained; our damp detestable climate reaches us + otherwise than by cold, and I am not quite as well as usual this + morning after an uncomfortable feverish night—not very unwell, mind, + nor unwell at all in the least degree of consequence—and I tell you, + only to show how susceptible I really am still, though 'scarcely an + invalid,' say the complimenters. +</p> +<p> + What a way I am from your letter—that letter—or seem to be + rather—for one may think of one thing and yet go on writing + distrustedly of other things. So you are 'grateful' to my sisters ... + <i>you</i>! Now I beseech you not to talk such extravagances; I mean such + extravagances as words like these <i>imply</i>—and there are far worse + words than these, in the letter ... such as I need not put my finger + on; words which are sense on my lips, but no sense at all on yours, + and which make me disquietedly sure that you are under an illusion. + Observe!—<i>certainly</i> I should not choose to have a '<i>claim</i>,' see! + Only, what I object to, in 'illusions,' 'miracles,' and things of that + sort, is the want of continuity common to such. When Joshua caused the + sun to stand still, it was not for a year even!—Ungrateful, I am! +</p> +<p> + And 'pretty well' means 'not well' I am afraid—or I should be gladder + still of the new act. You will tell me on Tuesday what 'pretty well' + means, and if your mother is better—or I may have a letter + to-morrow—dearest! May God bless you! +</p> +<p> + To-morrow too, at half past three o'clock, how joyful I shall be that + my 'kind considerateness' decided not to receive you until Tuesday. My + very kind considerateness, which made me eat my dinner to-day! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + A hundred letters I have, by this last, ... to set against Napoleon's + Hundred Days—did you know <i>that</i>? +</p> +<p> + So much better I am to-night: it was nothing but a little chill from + the damp—the fog, you see! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, January 19, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Love, if you knew but how vexed I was, so very few minutes after my + note left last night; how angry with the unnecessary harshness into + which some of the phrases might be construed—you would forgive me, + indeed. But, when all is confessed and forgiven, the fact + remains—that it would be the one trial I <i>know</i> I should not be able + to bear; the repetition of these 'scenes'—intolerable—not to be + written of, even my mind <i>refuses</i> to form a clear conception of them. +</p> +<p> + My own loved letter is come—and the news; of which the reassuring + postscript lets the interrupted joy flow on again. Well, and I am not + to be grateful for that; nor that you <i>do</i> 'eat your dinner'? Indeed + you will be ingenious to prevent me! I fancy myself meeting you on + 'the stairs'—stairs and passages generally, and galleries (ah, thou + indeed!) all, with their picturesque <i>accidents</i>, of landing-places, + and spiral heights and depths, and sudden turns and visions of half + open doors into what Quarles calls 'mollitious chambers'—and above + all, <i>landing-places</i>—they are my heart's delight—I would come upon + you unaware in a landing-place in my next dream! One day we may walk + on the galleries round and over the inner court of the Doges' Palace + at Venice; and read, on tablets against the wall, how such an one was + banished for an 'enormous dig (intacco) into the public + treasure'—another for ... what you are not to know because his + friends have got chisels and chipped away the record of it—underneath + the 'giants' on their stands, and in the midst of the <i>cortile</i> the + bronze fountains whence the girls draw water. +</p> +<p> + So <i>you</i> too wrote French verses?—Mine were of less lofty + argument—one couplet makes me laugh now for the reason of its false + quantity—I translated the Ode of Alcæus; and the last couplet ran + thus.... +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Harmodius, et toi, cher Aristogiton!</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">* * * * * * *</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">* * * * * * *</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Comme l'astre du jour, brillera votre nom! +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">The fact was, I could not bear to hurt my French Master's + feelings—who inveterately maltreated 'ai's and oi's' and in this + instance, an 'ei.' But 'Pauline' is altogether of a different sort of + precocity—you shall see it when I can master resolution to transcribe + the explanation which I know is on the fly-leaf of a copy here. Of + that work, the <i>Athenæum</i> said [several words erased] now, what + outrageous folly! I care, and you care, precisely nothing about its + sayings and doings—yet here I talk! +</p> +<p> + Now to you—Ba! When I go through sweetness to sweetness, at 'Ba' I + stop last of all, and lie and rest. That is the quintessence of them + all,—they all take colour and flavour from that. So, dear, dear Ba, + be glad as you can to see me to-morrow. God knows how I embalm every + such day,—I do not believe that one of the <i>forty</i> is confounded with + another in my memory. So, <i>that</i> is gained and sure for ever. And of + letters, this makes my 104th and, like Donne's Bride, +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p> ... I take,<br> +My jewels from their boxes; call<br> +My Diamonds, Pearls, and Emeralds, and make<br> +Myself a constellation of them all! +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Bless you, my own Beloved! +</p> +<p> + I am much better to-day—having been not so well yesterday—whence the + note to you, perhaps! I put that to your charity for construction. By + the way, let the foolish and needless story about my whilome friend be + of this use, that it records one of the traits in that same generous + love, of me, I once mentioned, I remember—one of the points in his + character which, I told you, <i>would</i> account, if you heard them, for + my parting company with a good deal of warmth of attachment to myself. +</p> +<p> + What a day! But you do not so much care for rain, I think. My Mother + is no worse, but still suffering sadly. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own, dearest ever— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 22, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever since I ceased to be with you—ever dearest,—have been with your + 'Luria,' if <i>that</i> is ceasing to be with you—which it <i>is</i>, I feel at + last. Yet the new act is powerful and subtle, and very affecting, it + seems to me, after a grave, suggested pathos; the reasoning is done on + every hand with admirable directness and adroitness, and poor Luria's + iron baptism under such a bright crossing of swords, most miserably + complete. Still ... is he to die <i>so</i>? can you mean it? Oh—indeed I + foresaw <i>that</i>—not a guess of mine ever touched such an end—and I + can scarcely resign myself to it as a necessity, even now ... I mean, + to the act, as Luria's act, whether it is final or not—the act of + suicide being so unheroical. But you are a dramatic poet and right + perhaps, where, as a didactic poet, you would have been wrong, ... + and, after the first shock, I begin to see that your Luria is the man + Luria and that his 'sun' lights him so far and not farther than so, + and to understand the natural reaction of all that generous trust and + hopefulness, what naturally it would be. Also, it is satisfactory that + Domizia, having put her woman's part off to the last, should be too + late with it—it will be a righteous retribution. I had fancied that + her object was to isolate him, ... to make his military glory and + national recompense ring hollowly to his ears, and so commend herself, + drawing back the veil. +</p> +<p> + Puccio's scornful working out of the low work, is very finely given, + I think, ... and you have 'a cunning right hand,' to lift up Luria + higher in the mind of your readers, by the very means used to pull + down his fortunes—you show what a man he is by the very talk of his + rivals ... by his 'natural godship' over Puccio. Then Husain is nobly + characteristic—I like those streaks of Moorish fire in his speeches. + 'Why 'twas all fighting' &c. ... <i>that</i> passage perhaps is over-subtle + for a Husain—but too nobly right in the abstract to be altered, if it + is so or not. Domizia talks philosophically besides, and how + eloquently;—and very noble she is where she proclaims +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">The angel in thee and rejects the sprites<br> +That ineffectual crowd about his strength,<br> +And mingle with his work and claim a share!— +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">But why not 'spirits' rather than 'sprites,' which has a different + association by custom? 'Spirits' is quite short enough, it seems to + me, for a last word—it sounds like a monosyllable that trembles—or + thrills, rather. And, do you know, I agree with yourself a little when + you say (as did you <i>not</i> say?) that some of the speeches—Domizia's + for instance—are too lengthy. I think I should like them to coil up + their strength, here and there, in a few passages. Luria ... poor + Luria ... is great and pathetic when he stands alone at last, and 'all + his waves have gone over him.' Poor Luria!—And now, I wonder where + Mr. Chorley will look, in this work,—along all the edges of the + hills,—to find, or prove, his favourite 'mist!' On the glass of his + own opera-lorgnon, perhaps:—shall we ask him to try <i>that</i>? +</p> +<p> + But first, I want to ask <i>you</i> something—I have had it in my head a + long time, but it might as well have been in a box—and indeed if it + had been in the box with your letters, I should have remembered to + speak of it long ago. So now, at last, tell me—how do you write, O my + poet? with steel pens, or Bramah pens, or goose-quills or + crow-quills?—Because I have a penholder which was given to me when I + was a child, and which I have used both then and since in the + production of various great epics and immortal 'works,' until in these + latter years it has seemed to me too heavy, and I have taken into + service, instead of it, another two-inch-long instrument which makes + Mr. Kenyon laugh to look at—and so, my fancy has run upon your having + the heavier holder, which is not very heavy after all, and which will + make you think of me whether you choose it or not, besides being made + of a splinter from the ivory gate of old, and therefore not unworthy + of a true prophet. Will you have it, dearest? Yes—because you can't + help it. When you come ... on Saturday!— +</p> +<p> + And for 'Pauline,' ... I am satisfied with the promise to see it some + day ... when we are in the isle of the sirens, or ready for wandering + in the Doges' galleries. I seem to understand that you would really + rather wish me not to see it now ... and as long as I <i>do</i> see it! So + <i>that shall</i> be!—Am I not good now, and not a teazer? If there is any + poetical justice in 'the seven worlds,' I shall have a letter + to-night. +</p> +<p> + By the way, you owe me two letters by your confession. A hundred and + four of mine you have, and I, only a hundred and two of yours ... + which is a 'deficit' scarcely creditable to me, (now is it?) when, + according to the law and ordinance, a woman's hundred and four letters + would take two hundred and eight at least, from the other side, to + justify them. Well—I feel inclined to wring out the legal per centage + to the uttermost farthing; but fall into a fit of gratitude, + notwithstanding, thinking of Monday, and how the second letter came + beyond hope. Always better, you are, than I guess you to be,—and it + was being <i>best</i>, to write, as you did, for me to hear twice on one + day!—best and dearest! +</p> +<p> + But the first letter was not what you feared—I know you too well not + to know how that letter was written and with what intention. <i>Do + you</i>, on the other hand, endeavour to comprehend how there may be an + eccentricity and obliquity in certain relations and on certain + subjects, while the general character stands up worthily of esteem and + regard—even of yours. Mr. Kenyon says broadly that it is + monomania—neither more nor less. Then the principle of passive filial + obedience is held—drawn (and quartered) from Scripture. He <i>sees</i> the + law and the gospel on his side. Only the other day, there was a + setting forth of the whole doctrine, I hear, down-stairs—'passive + obedience, and particularly in respect to marriage.' One after the + other, my brothers all walked out of the room, and there was left for + sole auditor, Captain Surtees Cook, who had especial reasons for + sitting it out against his will,—so he sate and asked 'if children + were to be considered slaves' as meekly as if he were asking for + information. I could not help smiling when I heard of it. He is just + <i>succeeding</i> in obtaining what is called an 'adjutancy,' which, with + the half pay, will put an end to many anxieties. +</p> +<p> + Dearest—when, in the next dream, you meet me in the 'landing-place,' + tell me why I am to stand up to be reviewed again. What a fancy, + <i>that</i> is of yours, for 'full-lengths'—and what bad policy, if a + fancy, to talk of it so! because you would have had the glory and + advantage, and privilege, of seeing me on my feet twenty times before + now, if you had not impressed on me, in some ineffable manner, that to + stand on my head would scarcely be stranger. Nevertheless you shall + have it your own way, as you have everything—which makes you so very, + very, exemplarily submissive, you know! +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon does not come—puts it off to <i>Saturday</i> perhaps. +</p> +<p> + The <i>Daily News</i> I have had a glance at. A weak leading article, I + thought ... and nothing stronger from Ireland:—but enough + advertisements to promise a long future. What do you think? or have + you not seen the paper? No broad principles laid down. A mere + newspaper-support of the 'League.' +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. Say how you are—and <i>do</i> walk, and 'care' for + yourself, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">and, so, for your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Ba</i>. +</p> +<p> + Have I expressed to you at all how 'Luria' impresses <i>me</i> more and + more? You shall see the 'remarks' with the other papers—the details + of what strikes me. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, January 22, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + But you did <i>not</i> get the letter last evening—no, for all my good + intentions—because somebody came over in the morning and forced me to + go out ... and, perhaps, I <i>knew</i> what was coming, and had all my + thoughts <i>there</i>, that is, <i>here</i> now, with my own letters from you. I + think so—for this punishment, I will tell you, came for some sin or + other last night. I woke—late, or early—and, in one of those lucid + moments when all things are thoroughly <i>perceived</i>,—whether suggested + by some forgotten passage in the past sleep itself, I don't know—but + I seem to <i>apprehend</i>, comprehend entirely, for the first time, what + would happen if I lost you—the whole sense of that <i>closed door</i> of + Catarina's came on me at once, and it was <i>I</i> who said—not as quoting + or adapting another's words, but spontaneously, unavoidably, '<i>In that + door, you will not enter, I have</i>'.... And, dearest, the +</p> +<p> + Unwritten it must remain. +</p> +<p> + What is on the other leaf, no ill-omen, after all,—because I + strengthened myself against a merely imaginary evil—as I do always; + and <i>thus</i>—I know I never can lose you,—you surely are more mine, + there is less for the future to give or take away than in the + ordinary cases, where so much less is known, explained, possessed, as + with us. Understand for me, my dearest— +</p> +<p> + And do you think, sweet, that there <i>is</i> any free movement of my soul + which your penholder is to secure? Well, try,—it will be yours by + every right of discovery—and I, for my part, will religiously report + to you the first time I think of you 'which, but for your present I + should not have done'—or is it not a happy, most happy way of + ensuring a better fifth act to Luria than the foregoing? See the + absurdity I write—when it will be more probably the ruin of the + whole—for was it not observed in the case of a friend of mine once, + who wrote his own part in a piece for private theatricals, and had + ends of his own to serve in it,—that he set to work somewhat after + this fashion: 'Scene 1st. A breakfast chamber—Lord and Lady A. at + table—Lady A./ No more coffee my dear?—Lord A./ One more cup! + (<i>Embracing her</i>). Lady A./ I was thinking of trying the ponies in the + Park—are you engaged? Lord A./ Why, there's that bore of a Committee + at the House till 2. (<i>Kissing her hand</i>).' And so forth, to the + astonishment of the auditory, who did not exactly see the 'sequitur' + in either instance. Well, dearest, whatever comes of it, the 'aside,' + the bye-play, the digression, will be the best, and only true business + of the piece. And though I must smile at your notion of securing + <i>that</i> by any fresh appliance, mechanical or spiritual, yet I do thank + you, dearest, thank you from my heart indeed—(and I write with + Bramahs <i>always</i>—not being able to make a pen!) +</p> +<p> + If you have gone so far with 'Luria,' I fancy myself nearly or + altogether safe. I must not tell you, but I wished just these feelings + to be in your mind about Domizia, and the death of Luria: the last act + throws light back on all, I hope. Observe only, that Luria <i>would</i> + stand, if I have plied him effectually with adverse influences, in + such a position as to render any other end impossible without the hurt + to Florence which his religion is, to avoid inflicting—passively + awaiting, for instance, the sentence and punishment to come at night, + would as surely inflict it as taking part with her foes. His aim is to + prevent the harm she will do herself by striking him, so he moves + aside from the blow. But I know there is very much to improve and + heighten in this fourth act, as in the others—but the right aspect of + things seems obtained and the rest of the work is plain and easy. +</p> +<p> + I am obliged to leave off—the rest to-morrow—and then dear, + Saturday! I love you utterly, my own best, dearest— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Night.<br> +[Post-mark, January 23, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, I understand your 'Luria'—and there is to be more light; and I + open the window to the east and wait for it—a little less gladly than + for <i>you</i> on Saturday, dearest. In the meanwhile you have 'lucid + moments,' and 'strengthen' yourself into the wisdom of learning to + love me—and, upon consideration, it does not seem to be so hard after + all ... there is 'less for the future to take away' than you had + supposed—so <i>that</i> is the way? Ah, 'these lucid moments, in which all + things are thoroughly <i>perceived</i>';—what harm they do me!—And I am + to 'understand for you,' you say!—Am I? +</p> +<p> + On the other side, and to make the good omen complete, I remembered, + after I had sealed my last letter, having made a confusion between the + ivory and horn gates, the gates of false and true visions, as I am apt + to do—and my penholder belongs to the ivory gate, ... as you will + perceive in your lucid moments—poor holder! But, as you forget me on + Wednesdays, the post testifying, ... the sinecure may not be quite so + certain as the Thursday's letter says. And <i>I</i> too, in the meanwhile, + grow wiser, ... having learnt something which you cannot do,—you of + the 'Bells and Pomegranates': <i>You cannot make a pen.</i> Yesterday I + looked round the world in vain for it. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon does not come—<i>will</i> not perhaps until Saturday! Which + reminds me—Mr. Kenyon told me about a year ago that he had been + painfully employed that morning in <i>parting</i> two—dearer than + friends—and he had done it he said, by proving to either, that he or + she was likely to mar the prospects of the other. 'If I had spoken to + each, of himself or herself,' he said, 'I <i>never could have done it</i>.' +</p> +<p> + Was not <i>that</i> an ingenious cruelty? The remembrance rose up in me + like a ghost, and made me ask you once to promise what you promised + ... (you recollect?) because I could not bear to be stabbed with my + own dagger by the hand of a third person ... <i>so</i>! When people have + lucid moments themselves, you know, it is different. +</p> +<p> + And <i>shall</i> I indeed have a letter to-morrow? Or, not having the + penholder yet, will you.... +</p> +<p> + Goodnight. May God bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever and wholly your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, January 23, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Now, of all perverse interpretations that ever were and never ought to + have been, commend me to this of Ba's—after I bade her generosity + 'understand me,' too!—which meant, 'let her pick out of my disjointed + sentences a general meaning, if she can,—which I very well know their + imperfect utterance would not give to one unsupplied with the key of + my whole heart's-mystery'—and Ba, with the key in her hand, to + pretend and poke feathers and penholders into the key-hole, and + complain that the wards are wrong! So—when the poor scholar, one has + read of, uses not very dissimilar language and argument—who being + threatened with the deprivation of his Virgil learnt the Æneid by + heart and then said 'Take what you can now'!—<i>that</i> Ba calls + 'feeling the loss would not be so hard after all'!—<i>I</i> do not, at + least. And if at any future moment I should again be visited—as I + earnestly desire may never be the case—with a sudden consciousness of + the entire inutility of all earthly love (since of <i>my</i> love) to hold + its object back from the decree of God, if such should call it away; + one of those known facts which, for practical good, we treat as + supremely common-place, but which, like those of the uncertainty of + life—the very existence of God, I may say—if they were <i>not</i> + common-place, and could they be thoroughly apprehended (except in the + chance minutes which make one grow old, not the mere years)—the + business of the world would cease; but when you find Chaucer's graver + at his work of 'graving smale seles' by the sun's light, you know that + the sun's self could not have been <i>created</i> on that day—do you + 'understand' that, Ba? And when I am with you, or here or writing or + walking—and perfectly happy in the sunshine of you, I very well know + I am no wiser than is good for me and that there seems no harm in + feeling it impossible this should change, or fail to go on increasing + till this world ends and we are safe, I with you, for ever. But + when—if only <i>once</i>, as I told you, recording it for its very + strangeness, I <i>do</i> feel—in a flash—that words are words, and could + not alter <i>that</i> decree ... will you tell me how, after all, that + conviction and the true woe of it are better met than by the as + thorough conviction that, for one blessing, the extreme woe is + <i>impossible</i> now—that you <i>are</i>, and have been, <i>mine</i>, and <i>me</i>—one + with me, never to be parted—so that the complete separation not being + to be thought of, such an incomplete one as is yet in Fate's power may + be the less likely to attract her notice? And, dearest, in all + emergencies, see, I go to you for help; for your gift of better + comfort than is found in myself. Or ought I, if I could, to add one + more proof to the Greek proverb 'that the half is greater than the + whole'—and only love you for myself (it is absurd; but if I <i>could</i> + disentwine you from my soul in that sense), only see my own will, and + good (not in <i>your</i> will and good, as I now see them and shall ever + see) ... should you say I <i>did</i> love you then? Perhaps. And it would + have been better for me, I know—I should not have <i>written</i> this or + the like—there being no post in the Siren's isle, as you will see. +</p> +<p> + And the end of the whole matter is—what? Not by any means what my Ba + expects or ought to expect; that I say with a flounce 'Catch me + blotting down on paper, again, the first vague impressions in the + weakest words and being sure I have only to bid her + "understand"!—when I can get "Blair on Rhetoric," and the additional + chapter on the proper conduct of a letter'! On the contrary I tell + you, Ba, my own heart's dearest, I will provoke you tenfold worse; + will tell you all that comes uppermost, and what frightens me or + reassures me, in moments lucid or opaque—and when all the pen-stumps + and holders refuse to open the lock, out will come the key perforce; + and once put that knowledge—of the entire love and worship of my + heart and soul—to its proper use, and all will be clear—tell me + to-morrow that it will be clear when I call you to account and exact + strict payment for every word and phrase and full-stop and partial + stop, and no stop at all, in this wicked little note which got so + treacherously the kisses and the thankfulness—written with no + penholder that is to belong to me, I hope—but with the feather, + possibly, which Sycorax wiped the dew from, as Caliban remembered when + he was angry! All but—(that is, all was wrong but)—to be just ... + the old, dear, so dear ending which makes my heart beat now as at + first ... and so, pays for all! Wherefore, all is right again, is it + not? and you are my own priceless Ba, my very own—and I will have + you, if you like that style, and want you, and must have you every day + and all day long—much less see you to-morrow <i>stand</i>— +</p> +<p> + ... Now, there breaks down my new spirit—and, shame or no, I must + pray you, in the old way, <i>not</i> to <i>receive me standing</i>—I should not + remain master of myself I do believe! +</p> +<p> + You have put out of my head all I intended to write—and now I slowly + begin to remember the matters they seem strangely unimportant—that + poor impotency of a Newspaper! No—nothing of that for the present. + To-morrow my dearest! Ba's first comment—'<i>To-morrow?</i> <i>To-day</i> is + too soon, it seems—yet it is wise, perhaps, to avoid the satiety &c. + &c. &c. &c. &c.' +</p> +<p> + Does she feel how I kissed that comment back on her dear self as fit + punishment? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, January 26, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I must begin by invoking my own stupidity! To forget after all the + penholder! I had put it close beside me too on the table, and never + once thought of it afterwards from first to last—just as I should do + if I had a common-place book, the memoranda all turning to + obliviscenda as by particular contact. So I shall send the holder with + Miss Martineau's books which you can read or not as you like ... they + have beauty in passages ... but, trained up against the wall of a set + design, want room for branching and blossoming, great as her skill is. + I like her 'Playfellow' stories twice as well. Do you know <i>them</i>? + Written for children, and in such a fine heroic child-spirit as to be + too young and too old for nobody. Oh, and I send you besides a most + frightful extract from an American magazine sent to me yesterday ... + no, the day before ... on the subject of mesmerism—and you are to + understand, if you please, that the Mr. Edgar Poe who stands committed + in it, is my dedicator ... whose dedication I forgot, by the way, with + the rest—so, while I am sending, you shall have his poems with his + mesmeric experience and decide whether the outrageous compliment to + E.B.B. or the experiment on M. Vandeleur [Valdemar] goes furthest to + prove him mad. There is poetry in the man, though, now and then, seen + between the great gaps of bathos.... 'Politian' will make you + laugh—as the 'Raven' made <i>me</i> laugh, though with something in it + which accounts for the hold it took upon people such as Mr. N.P. + Willis and his peers—it was sent to me from <i>four</i> different quarters + besides the author himself, before its publication in this form, and + when it had only a newspaper life. Some of the other lyrics have power + of a less questionable sort. For the author, I do not know him at + all—never heard from him nor wrote to him—and in my opinion, there + is more faculty shown in the account of that horrible mesmeric + experience (mad or not mad) than in his poems. Now do read it from the + beginning to the end. That '<i>going out</i>' of the hectic, struck me very + much ... and the writhing <i>away</i> of the upper lip. Most + horrible!—Then I believe so much of mesmerism, as to give room for + the full acting of the story on me ... without absolutely giving full + credence to it, understand. +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest, you could not think me in earnest in that letter? It was + because I understood you so perfectly that I felt at liberty for the + jesting a little—for had I not thought of <i>that</i> before, myself, and + was I not reproved for speaking of it, when I said that I was content, + for my part, even <i>so</i>? Surely you remember—and I should not have + said it if I had not felt with you, felt and known, that 'there is, + with us, less for the future to give or take away than in the ordinary + cases.' So much less! All the happiness I have known has come to me + through you, and it is enough to live for or die in—therefore living + or dying I would thank God, and use that word '<i>enough</i>' ... being + yours in life and death. And always understanding that if either of us + should go, you must let it be this one here who was nearly gone when + she knew you, since I could not bear— +</p> +<p> + Now see if it is possible to write on this subject, unless one laughs + to stop the tears. I was more wise on Friday. +</p> +<p> + Let me tell you instead of my sister's affairs, which are so publicly + talked of in this house that there is no confidence to be broken in + respect to them—yet my brothers only see and hear, and are told + nothing, to keep them as clear as possible from responsibility. I may + say of Henrietta that her only fault is, her virtues being written in + water—I know not of one other fault. She has too much softness to be + able to say 'no' in the right place—and thus, without the slightest + levity ... perfectly blameless in that respect, ... she says half a + yes or a quarter of a yes, or a yes in some sort of form, too + often—but I will tell you. Two years ago, three men were loving her, + as they called it. After a few months, and the proper quantity of + interpretations, one of them consoled himself by giving nick-names to + his rivals. Perseverance and Despair he called them, and so, went up + to the boxes to see out the rest of the play. Despair ran to a crisis, + was rejected in so many words, but appealed against the judgment and + had his claim admitted—it was all silence and mildness on each side + ... a tacit gaining of ground,—Despair 'was at least a gentleman,' + said my brothers. On which Perseverance came on with violent + re-iterations,—insisted that she loved him without knowing it, or + <i>should</i>—elbowed poor Despair into the open streets, who being a + gentleman wouldn't elbow again—swore that 'if she married another he + would wait till she became a widow, trusting to Providence' ... <i>did</i> + wait every morning till the head of the house was out, and sate day by + day, in spite of the disinclination of my sisters and the rudeness of + all my brothers, four hours in the drawing-room ... let himself be + refused once a week and sate all the longer ... allowed everybody in + the house (and a few visitors) to see and hear him in fits of + hysterical sobbing, and sate on unabashed, the end being that he sits + now sole regnant, my poor sister saying softly, with a few tears of + remorse for her own instability, that she is 'taken by storm and + cannot help it.' I give you only the <i>résumé</i> of this military + movement—and though I seem to smile, which it was impossible to avoid + at some points of the evidence as I heard it from first one person and + then another, yet I am woman enough rather to be glad that the + decision is made <i>so</i>. He is sincerely attached to her, I believe; and + the want of refinement and sensibility (for he understood her + affections to be engaged to another at one time) is covered in a + measure by the earnestness,—and justified too by the event—everybody + being quite happy and contented, even to Despair, who has a new horse + and takes lessons in music. +</p> +<p> + That's love—is it not? And that's my answer (if you look for it) to + the question you asked me yesterday. +</p> +<p> + Yet do not think that I am turning it all to game. I could not do so + with any real earnest sentiment ... I never could ... and now least, + and with my own sister whom I love so. One may smile to oneself and + yet wish another well—and so I smile to <i>you</i>—and it is all safe + with you I know. He is a second or third cousin of ours and has golden + opinions from all his friends and fellow-officers—and for the rest, + most of these men are like one another.... I never could see the + difference between fuller's earth and common clay, among them all. +</p> +<p> + What do you think he has said since—to <i>her</i> too?—'I always + persevere about everything. Once I began to write a farce—which they + told me was as bad as could be. Well!—I persevered!—<i>I finished + it</i>.' Perfectly unconscious, both he and she were of there being + anything mal à propos in <i>that</i>—and no kind of harm was meant,—only + it expresses the man. +</p> +<p> + Dearest—it had better be Thursday I think—<i>our</i> day! I was showing + to-day your father's drawings,—and my brothers, and Arabel besides, + admired them very much on the right grounds. Say how you are. You did + not seem to me to answer frankly this time, and I was more than half + uneasy when you went away. Take exercise, dear, dearest ... think of + me enough for it,—and do not hurry 'Luria.' May God bless you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Ba.</i> +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, January 26, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I will not try and write much to-night, dearest, for my head gives a + little warning—and I have so much to think of!—spite of my penholder + being kept back from me after all! Now, ought I to have asked for it? + Or did I not seem grateful enough at the promise? This last would be a + characteristic reason, seeing that I reproached myself with feeling + <i>too</i> grateful for the 'special symbol'—the 'essential meaning' of + which was already in my soul. Well then, I will—I do pray for + it—next time; and I will keep it for that one yesterday and all its + memories—and it shall bear witness against me, if, on the Siren's + isle, I grow forgetful of Wimpole Street. And when is 'next time' to + be—Wednesday or Thursday? When I look back on the strangely steady + widening of my horizon—how no least interruption has occurred to + visits or letters—oh, care <i>you</i>, sweet—care for us both! +</p> +<p> + That remark of your sister's delights me—you remember?—that the + anger would not be so formidable. I have exactly the fear of + encountering <i>that</i>, which the sense of having to deal with a ghost + would induce: there's no striking at it with one's partizan. Well, God + is above all! It is not my fault if it so happens that by returning my + love you make me exquisitely blessed; I believe—more than hope, I am + <i>sure</i> I should do all I ever <i>now</i> can do, if you were never to know + it—that is, my love for you was in the first instance its own + reward—if one must use such phrases—and if it were possible for + that ... not <i>anger</i>, which is of no good, but that <i>opposition</i>—that + adverse will—to show that your good would be attained by the— +</p> +<p> + But it would need to be <i>shown</i> to me. You have said thus to me—in + the very last letter, indeed. But with me, or any <i>man</i>, the instincts + of happiness develop themselves too unmistakably where there is + anything like a freedom of will. The man whose heart is set on being + rich or influential after the worldly fashion, may be found far enough + from the attainment of either riches or influence—but he will be in + the presumed way to them—pumping at the pump, if he is really anxious + for water, even though the pump be dry—but not sitting still by the + dusty roadside. +</p> +<p> + I believe—first of all, you—but when that is done, and I am allowed + to call your heart <i>mine</i>,—I cannot think you would be happy if + parted from me—and <i>that</i> belief, coming to add to my own feeling in + <i>that</i> case. So, this will <i>be</i>—I trust in God. +</p> +<p> + In life, in death, I am your own, <i>my</i> own! My head has got well + already! It is so slight a thing, that I make such an ado about! Do + not reply to these bodings—they are gone—they seem absurd! All steps + secured but the last, and that last the easiest! Yes—far easiest! For + first you had to be created, only that; and then, in my time; and + then, not in Timbuctoo but Wimpole Street, and then ... the strange + hedge round the sleeping Palace keeping the world off—and then ... + all was to begin, all the difficulty only <i>begin</i>:—and now ... see + where is reached! And I kiss you, and bless you, my dearest, in + earnest of the end! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 27, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You have had my letter and heard about the penholder. Your fancy of + 'not seeming grateful enough,' is not wise enough for <i>you</i>, dearest; + when you know that <i>I</i> know your common fault to be the undue + magnifying of everything that comes from me, and I am always + complaining of it outwardly and inwardly. That suddenly I should set + about desiring you to be more grateful,—even for so great a boon as + an old penholder,—would be a more astounding change than any to be + sought or seen in a prime minister. +</p> +<p> + Another mistake you made concerning Henrietta and her opinion—and + there's no use nor comfort in leaving you in it. Henrietta says that + the 'anger would not be so formidable after all'! Poor dearest + Henrietta, who trembles at the least bending of the brows ... who has + less courage than I, and the same views of the future! What she + referred to, was simply the infrequency of the visits. 'Why was I + afraid,' she said—'where was the danger? who would be the + <i>informer</i>?'—Well! I will not say any more. It is just natural that + you, in your circumstances and associations, should be unable to see + what I have seen from the beginning—only you will not hereafter + reproach me, in the most secret of your thoughts, for not having told + you plainly. If I could have told you with greater plainness I should + blame myself (and I do not) because it is not an opinion I have, but a + perception. I see, I know. The result ... the end of all ... perhaps + now and then I see <i>that</i> too ... in the 'lucid moments' which are not + the happiest for anybody. Remember, in all cases, that I shall not + repent of any part of our past intercourse; and that, therefore, when + the time for decision comes, you will be free to look at the question + as if you saw it then for the first moment, without being hampered by + considerations about 'all those yesterdays.' +</p> +<p> + For <i>him</i> ... he would rather see me dead at his foot than yield the + point: and he will say so, and mean it, and persist in the meaning. +</p> +<p> + Do you ever wonder at me ... that I should write such things, and have + written others so different? <i>I have thought that in myself very + often.</i> Insincerity and injustice may seem the two ends, while I + occupy the straight betwixt two—and I should not like you to doubt + how this may be! Sometimes I have begun to show you the truth, and + torn the paper; I <i>could</i> not. Yet now again I am borne on to tell + you, ... to save you from some thoughts which you cannot help perhaps. +</p> +<p> + There has been no insincerity—nor is there injustice. I believe, I am + certain, I have loved him better than the rest of his children. I have + heard the fountain within the rock, and my heart has struggled in + towards him through the stones of the rock ... thrust off ... dropping + off ... turning in again and clinging! Knowing what is excellent in + him well, loving him as my only parent left, and for himself dearly, + notwithstanding that hardness and the miserable 'system' which made + him appear harder still, I have loved him and been proud of him for + his high qualities, for his courage and fortitude when he bore up so + bravely years ago under the worldly reverses which he yet felt + acutely—more than you and I could feel them—but the fortitude was + admirable. Then came the trials of love—then, I was repulsed too + often, ... made to suffer in the suffering of those by my side ... + depressed by petty daily sadnesses and terrors, from which it is + possible however for an elastic affection to rise again as past. Yet + my friends used to say 'You look broken-spirited'—and it was true. In + the midst, came my illness,—and when I was ill he grew gentler and + let me draw nearer than ever I had done: and after that great stroke + ... you <i>know</i> ... though <i>that</i> fell in the middle of a storm of + emotion and sympathy on my part, which drove clearly against him, God + seemed to strike our hearts together by the shock; and I was grateful + to him for not saying aloud what I said to myself in my agony, '<i>If it + had not been for you</i>'...! And comparing my self-reproach to what I + imagined his self-reproach must certainly be (for if <i>I</i> had loved + selfishly, <i>he</i> had not been kind), I felt as if I could love and + forgive him for two ... (I knowing that serene generous departed + spirit, and seeming left to represent it) ... and I did love him + better than all those left to <i>me</i> to love in the world here. I proved + a little my affection for him, by coming to London at the risk of my + life rather than diminish the comfort of his home by keeping a part of + my family away from him. And afterwards for long and long he spoke to + me kindly and gently, and of me affectionately and with too much + praise; and God knows that I had as much joy as I imagined myself + capable of again, in the sound of his footstep on the stairs, and of + his voice when he prayed in this room; my best hope, as I have told + him since, being, to die beneath his eyes. Love is so much to me + naturally—it is, to all women! and it was so much to <i>me</i> to feel + sure at last that <i>he</i> loved me—to forget all blame—to pull the + weeds up from that last illusion of life:—and this, till the + Pisa-business, which threw me off, far as ever, again—farther than + ever—when George said 'he could not flatter me' and I dared not + flatter myself. But do <i>you</i> believe that I never wrote what I did not + feel: I never did. And I ask one kindness more ... do not notice what + I have written here. Let it pass. We can alter nothing by ever so many + words. After all, he is the victim. He isolates himself—and now and + then he feels it ... the cold dead silence all round, which is the + effect of an incredible system. If he were not stronger than most men, + he could not bear it as he does. With such high qualities too!—so + upright and honourable—you would esteem him, you would like him, I + think. And so ... dearest ... let <i>that</i> be the last word. +</p> +<p> + I dare say you have asked yourself sometimes, why it was that I never + managed to draw you into the house here, so that you might make your + own way. Now <i>that</i> is one of the things impossible to me. I have not + influence enough for <i>that</i>. George can never invite a friend of his + even. Do you see? The people who do come here, come by particular + license and association ... Capt. Surtees Cook being one of them. + Once ... when I was in high favour too ... I asked for Mr. Kenyon to + be invited to dinner—he an old college friend, and living close by + and so affectionate to me always—I felt that he must be hurt by the + neglect, and asked. <i>It was in vain.</i> Now, you see— +</p> +<p> + May God bless you always! I wrote all my spirits away in this letter + yesterday, and kept it to finish to-day ... being yours every day, + glad or sad, ever beloved!— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 27, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Why will you give me such unnecessary proofs of your goodness? Why not + leave the books for me to take away, at all events? No—you must fold + up, and tie round, and seal over, and be at all the pains in the world + with those hands I see now. But you only threaten; say you 'shall + send'—as yet, and nothing having come, I do pray you, if not too + late, to save me the shame—add to the gratitude you never can now, I + think ... only <i>think</i>, for you are a siren, and I don't know + certainly to what your magic may not extend. Thus, in not so important + a matter, I should have said, the day before yesterday, that no letter + from you could make my heart rise within me, more than of old ... + unless it should happen to be of twice the ordinary thickness ... and + <i>then</i> there's a fear at first lest the over-running of my dealt-out + measure should be just a note of Mr. Kenyon's, for instance! But + yesterday the very seal began with 'Ba'—Now, always seal with that + seal my letters, dearest! Do you recollect Donne's pretty lines about + seals? +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Quondam fessus Amor loquens Amato,<br> +Tot et tanta loquens amica, scripsit:<br> +Tandem et fessa manus dedit Sigillum. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">And in his own English, +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">When love, being weary, made an end<br> +Of kind expressions to his friend,<br> +He writ; when hand could write no more,<br> +He gave the seal—and so left o'er. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p> + (By the way, what a mercy that he never noticed the jingle <i>in posse</i> + of ending 'expressions' and beginning 'impressions.') +</p> +<p> + How your account of the actors in the 'Love's Labour Lost' amused me! + I rather like, though, the notion of that steady, business-like + pursuit of love under difficulties; and the <i>sobbing</i> proves something + surely! Serjt. Talfourd says—is it not he who says it?—'All tears + are not for sorrow.' I should incline to say, from my own feeling, + that no tears were. They only express joy in me, or sympathy with + joy—and so is it with you too, I should think. +</p> +<p> + Understand that I do <i>not</i> disbelieve in Mesmerism—I only object to + insufficient evidence being put forward as quite irrefragable. I keep + an open sense on the subject—ready to be instructed; and should have + refused such testimony as Miss Martineau's if it had been adduced in + support of something I firmly believed—'non <i>tali</i> auxilio'—indeed, + so has truth been harmed, and only so, from the beginning. So, I shall + read what you bid me, and learn all I can. +</p> +<p> + I am not quite so well this week—yesterday some friends came early + and kept me at home—for which I seem to suffer a little; less, + already, than in the morning—so I will go out and walk away the + whirring ... which is all the mighty ailment. As for 'Luria' I have + not looked at it since I saw you—which means, saw you in the body, + because last night I saw you; as I wonder if you know! +</p> +<p> + Thursday, and again I am with you—and you will forget nothing ... how + the farewell is to be returned? Ah, my dearest, sweetest Ba; how + entirely I love you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God bless you ever—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<p> + 2. p.m. Your parcel arrives ... the penholder; now what shall I say? + How am I to use so fine a thing even in writing to you? I will give it + you again in our Isle, and meantime keep it where my other treasures + are—my letters and my dear ringlet. +</p> +<p> + Thank you—all I can thank. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 28, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest—I will say, as you desire, nothing on that subject—but + this strictly for myself: you engaged me to consult my own good in the + keeping or breaking our engagement; not <i>your</i> good as it might even + seem to me; much less seem to another. My only good in this + world—that against which all the world goes for nothing—is to spend + my life with you, and be yours. You know that when I <i>claim</i> anything, + it is really yourself in me—you <i>give</i> me a right and bid me use it, + and I, in fact, am most obeying you when I appear most exacting on my + own account—so, in that feeling, I dare claim, once for all, and in + all possible cases (except that dreadful one of your becoming worse + again ... in which case I wait till life ends with both of us), I + claim your promise's fulfilment—say, at the summer's end: it cannot + be for your good that this state of things should continue. We can go + to Italy for a year or two and be happy as day and night are long. For + me, I adore you. This is all unnecessary, I feel as I write: but you + will think of the main fact as <i>ordained</i>, granted by God, will you + not, dearest?—so, not to be put in doubt <i>ever again</i>—then, we can + go quietly thinking of after matters. Till to-morrow, and ever after, + God bless my heart's own, own Ba. All my soul follows you, + love—encircles you—and I live in being yours. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, January 31, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Let it be this way, ever dearest. If in the time of fine weather, I am + not ill, ... <i>then</i> ... <i>not now</i> ... you shall decide, and your + decision shall be duty and desire to me, both—I will make no + difficulties. Remember, in the meanwhile, that I <i>have</i> decided to let + it be as you shall choose ... <i>shall</i> choose. That I love you enough + to give you up 'for your good,' is proof (to myself at least) that I + love you enough for any other end:—but you thought <i>too much of me in + the last letter</i>. Do not mistake me. I believe and trust in all your + words—only you are generous unawares, as other men are selfish. +</p> +<p> + More, I meant to say of this; but you moved me as usual yesterday into + the sunshine, and then I am dazzled and cannot see clearly. Still I + see that you love me and that I am bound to you:—and 'what more need + I see,' you may ask; while I cannot help looking out to the future, to + the blue ridges of the hills, to the <i>chances</i> of your being happy + with me. Well! I am yours as <i>you</i> see ... and not yours to teaze you. + You shall decide everything when the time comes for doing anything ... + and from this to then, I do not, dearest, expect you to use 'the + liberty of leaping out of the window,' unless you are sure of the + house being on fire! Nobody shall push you out of the window—least of + all, <i>I</i>. +</p> +<p> + For Italy ... you are right. We should be nearer the sun, as you say, + and further from the world, as I think—out of hearing of the great + storm of gossiping, when 'scirocco is loose.' Even if you liked to + live altogether abroad, coming to England at intervals, it would be no + sacrifice for me—and whether in Italy or England, we should have + sufficient or more than sufficient means of living, without modifying + by a line that 'good free life' of yours which you reasonably + praise—which, if it had been necessary to modify, <i>we must have + parted</i>, ... because I could not have borne to see you do it; though, + that you once offered it for my sake, I never shall forget. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon stayed half an hour, and asked, after you went, if you had + been here long. I reproached him with what they had been doing at his + club (the Athenæum) in blackballing Douglas Jerrold, for want of + something better to say—and he had not heard of it. There were more + black than white balls, and Dickens was so enraged at the repulse of + his friend that he gave in his own resignation like a privy + councillor. +</p> +<p> + But the really bad news is of poor Tennyson—I forgot to tell you—I + forget everything. He is seriously ill with an internal complaint and + confined to his bed, as George heard from a common friend. Which does + not prevent his writing a new poem—he has finished the second book of + it—and it is in blank verse and a fairy tale, and called the + 'University,' the university-members being all females. If George has + not diluted the scheme of it with some law from the Inner Temple, I + don't know what to think—it makes me open my eyes. Now isn't the + world too old and fond of steam, for blank verse poems, in ever so + many books, to be written on the fairies? I hope they may cure him, + for the best deed they can do. He is not precisely in danger, + understand—but the complaint may <i>run</i> into danger—so the account + went. +</p> +<p> + And you? how are you? Mind to tell me. May God bless you. Is Monday or + Tuesday to be <i>our</i> day? If it were not for Mr. Kenyon I should take + courage and say Monday—but Tuesday and Saturday would do as + well—would they not? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + Shall I have a letter? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, January 31, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + It is a relief to me this time to obey your wish, and reserve further + remark on <i>that</i> subject till by and bye. And, whereas some people, I + suppose, have to lash themselves up to the due point of passion, and + choose the happy minutes to be as loving in as they possibly can ... + (that is, in <i>expression</i>; the just correspondency of word to fact and + feeling: for <i>it</i>—the love—may be very truly <i>there</i>, at the bottom, + when it is got at, and spoken out)—quite otherwise, I do really have + to guard my tongue and set a watch on my pen ... that so I may say as + little as can well be likely to be excepted to by your generosity. + Dearest, <i>love</i> means <i>love</i>, certainly, and adoration carries its + sense with it—and <i>so</i>, you may have received my feeling in that + shape—but when I begin to hint at the merest putting into practice + one or the other profession, you 'fly out'—instead of keeping your + throne. So let this letter lie awhile, till my heart is more used to + it, and after some days or weeks I will find as cold and quiet a + moment as I can, and by standing as far off you as I shall be able, + see more—'si <i>minus propè</i> stes, te capiet magis.' Meanwhile, silent + or speaking, I am yours to dispose of as that <i>glove</i>—not that hand. +</p> +<p> + I must think that Mr. Kenyon sees, and knows, and ... in his goodness + ... hardly disapproves—he knows I could not avoid—escape you—for he + knows, in a manner, what you are ... like your American; and, early in + our intercourse, he asked me (did I tell you?) 'what I thought of his + young relative'—and I considered half a second to this effect—'if he + asked me what I thought of the Queen-diamond they showed me in the + crown of the Czar—and I answered truly—he would not return; "then of + course you mean to try and get it to keep."' So I <i>did</i> tell the truth + in a very few words. Well, it is no matter. +</p> +<p> + I am sorry to hear of poor Tennyson's condition. The projected + book—title, scheme, all of it,—<i>that</i> is astounding;—and fairies? + If 'Thorpes and barnes, sheep-pens and dairies—<i>this</i> maketh that + there ben no fairies'—locomotives and the broad or narrow gauge must + keep the very ghosts of them away. But how the fashion of this world + passes; the forms its beauty and truth take; if <i>we</i> have the making + of such! I went last night, out of pure shame at a broken promise, to + hear Miss Cushman and her sister in 'Romeo and Juliet.' The whole play + goes ... horribly; 'speak' bids the Poet, and so M. Walladmir + [Valdemar] moves his tongue and dispenses with his jaws. Whatever is + slightly touched in, indicated, to give relief to something actually + insisted upon and drawn boldly ... <i>here</i>, you have it gone over with + an unremitting burnt-stick, till it stares black forever! Romeo goes + whining about Verona by broad daylight. Yet when a schoolfellow of + mine, I remember, began translating in class Virgil after this mode, + 'Sic fatur—so said Æneas; lachrymans—<i>a-crying</i>' ... our pedagogue + turned on him furiously—'D'ye think Æneas made such a noise—as <i>you</i> + shall, presently?' How easy to conceive a boyish half-melancholy, + smiling at itself. +</p> +<p> + Then <i>Tuesday</i>, and not Monday ... and Saturday will be the nearer + afterward. I am singularly well to-day—head quite quiet—and + yesterday your penholder began its influence and I wrote about half my + last act. Writing is nothing, nor praise, nor blame, nor living, nor + dying, but you are all my true life; May God bless you ever— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, February 2, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Something, you said yesterday, made me happy—'that your liking for me + did not come and go'—do you remember? Because there was a letter, + written at a crisis long since, in which you showed yourself awfully, + as a burning mountain, and talked of 'making the most of your + fire-eyes,' and of having at intervals 'deep black pits of cold + water'!—and the lava of that letter has kept running down into my + thoughts of you too much, until quite of late—while even yesterday I + was not too well instructed to be 'happy,' you see! Do not reproach + me! I would not have 'heard your enemy say so'—it was your own word! + And the other long word <i>idiosyncrasy</i> seemed long enough to cover it; + and it might have been a matter of temperament, I fancied, that a man + of genius, in the mystery of his nature, should find his feelings + sometimes like dumb notes in a piano ... should care for people at + half past eleven on Tuesday, and on Wednesday at noon prefer a black + beetle. How you frightened me with your 'fire-eyes'! 'making the most + of them' too! and the 'black pits,' which gaped ... <i>where</i> did they + gape? who could tell? Oh—but lately I have not been crossed so, of + course, with those fabulous terrors—lately that horror of the burning + mountain has grown more like a superstition than a rational fear!—and + if I was glad ... happy ... yesterday, it was but as a tolerably + sensible nervous man might be glad of a clearer moonlight, showing him + that what he had half shuddered at for a sheeted ghoule, was only a + white horse on the moor. Such a great white horse!—call it the + 'mammoth horse'—the '<i>real</i> mammoth,' this time! +</p> +<p> + Dearest, did I write you a cold letter the last time? Almost it seems + so to me! the reason being that my feelings were near to overflow, and + that I had to hold the cup straight to prevent the possible dropping + on your purple underneath. <i>Your</i> letter, the letter I answered, was + in my heart ... <i>is</i> in my heart—and all the yeses in the world would + not be too many for such a letter, as I felt and feel. Also, perhaps, + I gave you, at last, a merely formal distinction—and it comes to the + same thing practically without any doubt! but I shrank, with a sort of + instinct, from appearing (to myself, mind) to take a security from + your words now (said too on an obvious impulse) for what should, + would, <i>must</i>, depend on your deliberate wishes hereafter. You + understand—you will not accuse me of over-cautiousness and the like. + On the contrary, you are all things to me, ... instead of all and + better than all! You have fallen like a great luminous blot on the + whole leaf of the world ... of life and time ... and I can see nothing + beyond you, nor wish to see it. As to all that was evil and sadness to + me, I do not feel it any longer—it may be raining still, but I am in + the shelter and can scarcely tell. If you <i>could</i> be <i>too dear</i> to me + you would be now—but you could not—I do not believe in those + supposed excesses of pure affections—God cannot be too great. +</p> +<p> + Therefore it is a conditional engagement still—all the conditions + being in your hands, except the necessary one, of my health. And shall + I tell you what is 'not to be put in doubt <i>ever</i>'?—your goodness, + <i>that</i> is ... and every tie that binds me to you. 'Ordained, granted + by God' it is, that I should owe the only happiness in my life to you, + and be contented and grateful (if it were necessary) to stop with it + at this present point. Still I <i>do not</i>—there seems no necessity yet. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, ever dearest:— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] +</p> +<p> + Well I have your letter—and I send you the postscript to my last one, + written yesterday you observe ... and being simply a postscript in + some parts of it, <i>so</i> far it is not for an answer. Only I deny the + 'flying out'—perhaps you may do it a little more ... in your moments + of starry centrifugal motion. +</p> +<p> + So you think that dear Mr. Kenyon's opinion of his 'young + relative'—(neither young nor his relative—not very much of either!) + is to the effect that you couldn't possibly 'escape' her—? It looks + like the sign of the Red Dragon, put <i>so</i> ... and your burning + mountain is not too awful for the scenery. +</p> +<p> + Seriously ... gravely ... if it makes me three times happy that you + should love me, yet I grow uneasy and even saddened when you say + infatuated things such as this and this ... unless after all you mean + a philosophical sarcasm on the worth of Czar diamonds. No—do not say + such things! If you do, I shall end by being jealous of some ideal + Czarina who must stand between you and me.... I shall think that it is + not <i>I</i> whom you look at ... and <i>pour cause</i>. 'Flying out,' <i>that</i> + would be! +</p> +<p> + And for Mr. Kenyon, I only know that I have grown the most ungrateful + of human beings lately, and find myself almost glad when he does not + come, certainly uncomfortable when he does—yes, <i>really</i> I would + rather not see him at all, and when you are not here. The sense of + which and the sorrow for which, turn me to a hypocrite, and make me + ask why he does not come &c. ... questions which never came to my lips + before ... till I am more and more ashamed and sorry. Will it end, I + wonder, by my ceasing to care for any one in the world, except, + except...? or is it not rather that I feel trodden down by either his + too great penetration or too great unconsciousness, both being + overwhelming things from him to me. From a similar cause I hate + writing letters to any of my old friends—I feel as if it were the + merest swindling to attempt to give the least account of myself to + anybody, and when their letters come and I know that nothing very + fatal has happened to them, scarcely I can read to an end afterwards + through the besetting care of having to answer it all. Then I am + ignoble enough to revenge myself on people for their stupidities ... + which never in my life I did before nor felt the temptation to do ... + and when they have a distaste for your poetry through want of + understanding, I have a distaste for <i>them</i> ... cannot help it—and + you need not say it is wrong, because I know the whole iniquity of it, + persisting nevertheless. As for dear Mr. Kenyon—with whom we began, + and who thinks of you as appreciatingly and admiringly as one man can + think of another,—do not imagine that, if he <i>should</i> see anything, + he can 'approve' of either your wisdom or my generosity, ... <i>he</i>, + with his large organs of caution, and his habit of looking right and + left, and round the corner a little way. Because, you know, ... if I + should be ill <i>before</i> ... why there, is a conclusion!—but if + <i>afterward</i> ... what? You who talk wildly of my generosity, whereas I + only and most impotently tried to be generous, must see how both + suppositions have their possibility. Nevertheless you are the master + to run the latter risk. You have overcome ... to your loss + perhaps—unless the judgment is revised. As to taking the half of my + prison ... I could not even smile at <i>that</i> if it seemed probable ... + I should recoil from your affection even under a shape so fatal to you + ... dearest! No! There is a better probability before us I hope and + believe—in spite of the <i>possibility</i> which it is impossible to deny. + And now we leave this subject for the present. +</p> +<p> + <i>Sunday.</i>—You are 'singularly well.' You are very seldom quite well, + I am afraid—yet 'Luria' seems to have done no harm this time, as you + are singularly well the day <i>after</i> so much writing. Yet do not hurry + that last act.... I won't have it for a long while yet. +</p> +<p> + Here I have been reading Carlyle upon Cromwell and he is very fine, + very much himself, it seems to me, everywhere. Did Mr. Kenyon make you + understand that I had said there was nothing in him but <i>manner</i> ... I + thought he said so—and I am confident that he never heard such an + opinion from me, for good or for evil, ever at all. I may have + observed upon those vulgar attacks on account of the so-called + <i>mannerism</i>, the obvious fact, that an individuality, carried into the + medium, the expression, is a feature in all men of genius, as Buffon + teaches ... 'Le style, c'est <i>l'homme</i>.' But if the <i>whole man</i> were + style, if all Carlyleism were manner—why there would be no man, no + Carlyle worth talking of. I wonder that Mr. Kenyon should misrepresent + me so. Euphuisms there may be to the end of the world—affected + parlances—just as a fop at heart may go without shoestrings to mimic + the distractions of some great wandering soul—although <i>that</i> is a + bad comparison, seeing that what is called Carlyle's mannerism, is not + his dress, but his physiognomy—or more than <i>that</i> even. +</p> +<p> + But I do not forgive him for talking here against the 'ideals of + poets' ... opposing their ideal by a mis-called <i>reality</i>, which is + another sort, a baser sort, of ideal after all. He sees things in + broad blazing lights—but he does not analyse them like a + philosopher—do you think so? Then his praise for dumb heroic action + as opposed to speech and singing, what is <i>that</i>—when all earnest + thought, passion, belief, and their utterances, are as much actions + surely as the cutting off of fifty heads by one right hand. As if + Shakespeare's actions were not greater than Cromwell's!— +</p> +<p> + But I shall write no more. Once more, may God bless you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Wholly and only</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 4, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You ought hardly,—ought you, my Ba?—to refer to <i>that</i> letter or any + expression in it; I had—and <i>have</i>, I trust—your forgiveness for + what I wrote, meaning to be generous or at least just, God knows. + That, and the other like exaggerations were there to serve the purpose + of what you properly call a <i>crisis</i>. I <i>did</i> believe,—taking an + expression, in the note that occasioned mine, in connection with an + excuse which came in the postscript for not seeing me on the day + previously appointed, I did fully believe that you were about to deny + me admittance again unless I blotted out—not merely softened + down—the past avowal. All was wrong, foolish, but from a good notion, + I dare to say. And then, that particular exaggeration you bring most + painfully to my mind—<i>that</i> does not, after all, disagree with what I + said and you repeat—does it, if you will think? I said my other + '<i>likings</i>' (as you rightly set it down) <i>used</i> to 'come and go,' and + that my love for you <i>did not</i>, and that is true; the first clause as + the last of the sentence, for my sympathies are very wide and + general,—always have been—and the natural problem has been the + giving unity to their object, concentrating them instead of + dispersing. I seem to have foretold, <i>foreknown</i> you in other likings + of mine—now here ... when the liking '<i>came</i>' ... and now elsewhere + ... when as surely the liking '<i>went</i>': and if they had stayed before + the time would that have been a comfort to refer to? On the contrary, + I am as little likely to be led by delusions as can be,—for Romeo + <i>thinks</i> he loves Rosaline, and is excused on all hands—whereas I saw + the plain truth without one mistake, and 'looked to like, if looking + liking moved—and no more deep <i>did</i> I endart mine eye'—about which, + first I was very sorry, and after rather proud—all which I seem to + have told you before.—And now, when my whole heart and soul find you, + and fall on you, and fix forever, I am to be dreadfully afraid the joy + cannot last, seeing that +</p> +<p> + —it is so baseless a fear that no illustration will serve! Is it gone + now, dearest, ever-dearest? +</p> +<p> + And as you amuse me sometimes, as now, by seeming surprised at some + chance expression of a truth which is grown a veriest commonplace to + <i>me</i>—like Charles Lamb's 'letter to an elderly man whose education + had been neglected'—when he finds himself involuntarily communicating + truths above the capacity and acquirements of his friend, and stops + himself after this fashion—'If you look round the world, my dear + Sir—for it <i>is</i> round!—so I will make you laugh at me, if you will, + for <i>my</i> inordinate delight at hearing the success of your experiment + with the opium. I never dared, nor shall dare inquire into your use of + that—for, knowing you utterly as I do, I know you only bend to the + most absolute necessity in taking more or less of it—so that increase + of the quantity must mean simply increased weakness, illness—and + diminution, diminished illness. And now there <i>is</i> diminution! Dear, + dear Ba—you speak of my silly head and its ailments ... well, and + what brings on the irritation? A wet day or two spent at home; and + what ends it all directly?—just an hour's walk! So with <i>me</i>: + now,—fancy me shut in a room for seven years ... it is—no, <i>don't</i> + see, even in fancy, what is left of me then! But <i>you</i>, at the end; + this is <i>all</i> the harm: I wonder ... I confirm my soul in its belief + in perpetual miraculousness ... I bless God with my whole heart that + it is thus with you! And so, I will not even venture to say—so + superfluous it were, though with my most earnest, most loving breath + (I who <i>do</i> love you more at every breath I draw; indeed, yes + dearest,)—I <i>will not</i> bid you—that is, pray you—to persevere! You + have all my life bound to yours—save me from <i>my 'seven years'</i>—and + God reward you! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 5, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + But I did not—dear, dearest—no indeed, I did not mean any harm about + the letter. I wanted to show you how you had given me pleasure—and + so,—did I give you pain? was <i>that</i> my ingenuity? Forgive my + unhappiness in it, and let it be as if it had not been. Only I will + just say that what made me talk about 'the thorn in the flesh' from + that letter so long, was a sort of conviction of your having put into + it as much of the truth, <i>your</i> truth, as admitted of the ultimate + purpose of it, and not the least, slightest doubt of the key you gave + me to the purpose in question. And so forgive me. Why did you set + about explaining, as if I were doubting you? When you said once that + it 'did not come and go,'—was it not enough? enough to make me feel + happy as I told you? Did I require you to write a letter like this? + Now think for a moment, and know once for all, how from the beginning + to these latter days and through all possible degrees of crisis, you + have been to my apprehension and gratitude, the best, most consistent, + most noble ... the words falter that would speak of it all. In nothing + and at no moment have you—I will not say—failed to <i>me</i>, but spoken + or acted unworthily of yourself at the highest. What have you ever + been to me except too generous? Ah—if I had been only half as + generous, it is true that I never could have seen you again after that + first meeting—it was the straight path perhaps. But I had not + courage—I shrank from the thought of it—and then ... besides ... I + could not believe that your mistake was likely to last,—I concluded + that I might keep my friend. +</p> +<p> + Why should any remembrance be painful to <i>you</i>? I do not understand. + Unless indeed I should grow painful to you ... I myself!—seeing that + every remembered separate thing has brought me nearer to you, and made + me yours with a deeper trust and love. +</p> +<p> + And for that letter ... do you fancy that in <i>my</i> memory the sting is + not gone from it?—and that I do not carry the thought of it, as the + Roman maidens, you speak of, their cool harmless snakes, at my heart + always? So let the poor letter be forgiven, for the sake of the dear + letter that was burnt, forgiven by <i>you</i>—until you grow angry with me + instead—just till then. +</p> +<p> + And that you should care so much about the opium! Then <i>I</i> must care, + and get to do with less—at least. On the other side of your goodness + and indulgence (a very little way on the other side) it might strike + you as strange that I who have had no pain—no acute suffering to keep + down from its angles—should need opium in any shape. But I have had + restlessness till it made me almost mad: at one time I lost the power + of sleeping quite—and even in the day, the continual aching sense of + weakness has been intolerable—besides palpitation—as if one's life, + instead of giving movement to the body, were imprisoned undiminished + within it, and beating and fluttering impotently to get out, at all + the doors and windows. So the medical people gave me opium—a + preparation of it, called morphine, and ether—and ever since I have + been calling it my amreeta draught, my elixir,—because the + tranquillizing power has been wonderful. Such a nervous system I + have—so irritable naturally, and so shattered by various causes, that + the need has continued in a degree until now, and it would be + dangerous to leave off the calming remedy, Mr. Jago says, except very + slowly and gradually. But slowly and gradually something may be + done—and you are to understand that I never <i>increased</i> upon the + prescribed quantity ... prescribed in the first instance—no! Now + think of my writing all this to you!— +</p> +<p> + And after all the lotus-eaters are blessed beyond the opium-eaters; + and the best of lotuses are such thoughts as I know. +</p> +<p> + Dear Miss Mitford comes to-morrow, and I am not glad enough. Shall I + have a letter to make me glad? She will talk, talk, talk ... and I + shall be hoping all day that not a word may be talked of ... <i>you</i>:—a + forlorn hope indeed! There's a hope for a day like Thursday which is + just in the middle between a Tuesday and a Saturday! +</p> +<p> + Your head ... is it ... <i>how</i> is it? tell me. And consider again if it + could be possible that I could ever desire to reproach <i>you</i> ... in + what I said about the letter. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, best and dearest. If you are the <i>compensation</i> + blessed is the evil that fell upon me: and <i>that</i>, I can say before + God. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 6, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + If I said you 'gave me pain' in anything, it was in the only way ever + possible for you, my dearest—by giving <i>yourself</i>, in me, pain—being + unjust to your own right and power as I feel them at my heart: and in + that way, I see you will go on to the end, I getting called—in this + very letter—'generous' &c. Well, let me fancy you see very, very deep + into future chances and how I should behave on occasion. I shall + hardly imitate you, I whose sense of the present and its claims of + gratitude already is beyond expression. +</p> +<p> + All the kind explaining about the opium makes me happier. 'Slowly and + gradually' what may <i>not</i> be done? Then see the bright weather while I + write—lilacs, hawthorn, plum-trees all in bud; elders in leaf, + rose-bushes with great red shoots; thrushes, whitethroats, hedge + sparrows in full song—there can, let us hope, be nothing worse in + store than a sharp wind, a week of it perhaps—and then comes what + shall come— +</p> +<p> + And Miss Mitford yesterday—and has she fresh fears for you of my evil + influence and Origenic power of 'raying out darkness' like a swart + star? Why, the common sense of the world teaches that there is nothing + people at fault in any faculty of expression are so intolerant of as + the like infirmity in others—whether they are unconscious of, or + indulgent to their own obscurity and fettered organ, the hindrance + from the fettering of their neighbours' is redoubled. A man may think + he is not deaf, or, at least, that you need not be so much annoyed by + his deafness as you profess—but he will be quite aware, to say the + least of it, when another man can't hear <i>him</i>; he will certainly not + encourage him to stop his ears. And so with the converse; a writer who + fails to make himself understood, as presumably in my case, may either + believe in his heart that it is <i>not</i> so ... that only as much + attention and previous instructedness as the case calls for, would + quite avail to understand him; or he may open his eyes to the fact and + be trying hard to overcome it: but on which supposition is he led to + confirm another in his unintelligibility? By the proverbial tenderness + of the eye with the mote for the eye with the beam? If that beam were + just such another mote—<i>then</i> one might sympathize and feel no such + inconvenience—but, because I have written a 'Sordello,' do I turn to + just its <i>double</i>, Sordello the second, in your books, and so perforce + see nothing wrong? 'No'—it is supposed—'but something <i>as</i> obscure + in its way.' Then down goes the bond of union at once, and I stand no + nearer to view your work than the veriest proprietor of one thought + and the two words that express it without obscurity at all—'bricks + and mortar.' Of course an artist's whole problem must be, as Carlyle + wrote to me, 'the expressing with articulate clearness the thought in + him'—I am almost inclined to say that <i>clear expression</i> should be + his only work and care—for he is born, ordained, such as he is—and + not born learned in putting what was born in him into words—what ever + <i>can</i> be clearly spoken, ought to be. But 'bricks and mortar' is very + easily said—and some of the thoughts in 'Sordello' not so readily + even if Miss Mitford were to try her hand on them. +</p> +<p> + I look forward to a real life's work for us both. <i>I</i> shall do + all,—under your eyes and with your hand in mine,—all I was intended + to do: may but <i>you</i> as surely go perfecting—by continuing—the work + begun so wonderfully—'a rose-tree that beareth seven-times seven'— +</p> +<p> + I am forced to dine in town to-day with an old friend—'to-morrow' + always begins half the day before, like a Jewish sabbath. Did your + sister tell you that I met her on the stairs last time? She did <i>not</i> + tell you that I had almost passed by her—the eyes being still + elsewhere and occupied. Now let me write out that—no—I will send the + old ballad I told you of, for the strange coincidence—and it is very + charming beside, is it not? Now goodbye, my sweetest, dearest—and + tell me good news of yourself to-morrow, and be but half a quarter as + glad to see me as I shall be blessed in seeing you. God bless you + ever. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own + +R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest, to my sorrow I must, I fear, give up the delight of seeing + you this morning. I went out unwell yesterday, and a long noisy dinner + with speech-making, with a long tiresome walk at the end of it—these + have given me such a bewildering headache that I really see some + reason in what they say here about keeping the house. Will you forgive + me—and let me forget it all on Monday? On <i>Monday</i>—unless I am told + otherwise by the early post—And God bless you ever +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I felt it must be so ... that something must be the matter, ... and I + had been so really unhappy for half an hour, that your letter which + comes now at four, seems a little better, with all its bad news, than + my fancies took upon themselves to be, without instruction. Now <i>was</i> + it right to go out yesterday when you were unwell, and to a great + dinner?—but I shall not reproach you, dearest, dearest—I have no + heart for it at this moment. As to Monday, of course it is as you like + ... if you are well enough on Monday ... if it should be thought wise + of you to come to London through the noise ... if ... you understand + all the <i>ifs</i> ... and among them the greatest if of all, ... for if + you do love me ... <i>care</i> for me even, you will not do yourself harm + or run any risk of harm by going out <i>anywhere too soon</i>. On Monday, + in case you are <i>considered well enough</i>, and otherwise Tuesday, + Wednesday—I leave it to you. Still I <i>will</i> ask one thing, whether + you come on Monday or not. <i>Let</i> me have a single line by the nearest + post to say how you are. Perhaps for to-night it is not possible—oh + no, it is nearly five now! but a word written on Sunday would be with + me early on Monday morning, and I know you will let me have it, to + save some of the anxious thoughts ... to break them in their course + with some sort of certainty! May God bless you dearest of all!—I + thought of you on Thursday, but did not speak of you, not even when + Miss Mitford called Hood the greatest poet of the age ... she had been + depreciating Carlyle, so I let you lie and wait on the same level, ... + that shelf of the rock which is above tide mark! I was glad even, that + she did not speak of you; and, under cover of her speech of others, I + had my thoughts of you deeply and safely. When she had gone at half + past six, moreover, I grew over-hopeful, and made up my fancy to have + a letter at eight! The branch she had pulled down, sprang upward + skyward ... to that high possibility of a letter! Which did not come + that day ... no!—and I revenged myself by writing a letter to <i>you</i>, + which was burnt afterwards because I would not torment you for + letters. Last night, came a real one—dearest! So we could not keep + our sabbath to-day! It is a fast day instead, ... on my part. How + should I feel (I have been thinking to myself), if I did not see you + on Saturday, and could not hope to see you on Monday, nor on Tuesday, + nor on Wednesday, nor Thursday nor Friday, nor Saturday again—if all + the sabbaths were gone out of the world for me! May God bless you!—it + has grown to be enough prayer!—as <i>you</i> are enough (and all, besides) + for +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + The clock strikes—<i>three</i>; and I am here, not with you—and my + 'fractious' headache at the very worst got suddenly better just now, + and is leaving me every minute—as if to make me aware, with an + undivided attention, that at this present you are waiting for me, and + soon will be wondering—and it would be so easy now to dress myself + and walk or run or ride—do anything that led to you ... but by no + haste in the world could I reach you, I am forced to see, before a + quarter to five—by which time I think my letter must arrive. Dear, + dearest Ba, did you but know how vexed I am—with myself, with—this + is absurd, of course. The cause of it all was my going out last + night—yet that, neither, was to be helped, the party having been + twice put off before—once solely on my account. And the sun shines, + and you would shine— +</p> +<p> + Monday is to make all the amends in its power, is it not? Still, still + I have lost my day. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you, my ever-dearest.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 9, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + My dearest—there are no words,—nor will be to-morrow, nor even in + the Island—I know that! But I do love you. +</p> +<p> + My arms have been round you for many minutes since the last word— +</p> +<p> + I am quite well now—my other note will have told you when the change + began—I think I took too violent a shower bath, with a notion of + getting better in as little time as possible,—and the stimulus turned + mere feverishness to headache. However, it was no sooner gone, in a + degree, than a worse plague came. I sate thinking of you—but I knew + my note would arrive at about four o'clock or a little later—and I + thought the visit for the quarter of an hour would as effectually + prevent to-morrow's meeting as if the whole two hours' blessing had + been laid to heart—to-morrow I shall see you, Ba—my sweetest. But + there are cold winds blowing to-day—how do you bear them, my Ba? + '<i>Care</i>' you, pray, pray, care for all <i>I</i> care about—and be well, if + God shall please, and bless me as no man ever was blessed! Now I kiss + you, and will begin a new thinking of you—and end, and begin, going + round and round in my circle of discovery,—<i>My</i> lotos-blossom! + because they <i>loved</i> the lotos, were lotos-lovers,—<span title="lôtou t' erôtes">λωτου τ' ερωτες</span>, + as Euripides writes in the <span title="Trôades"> + Τρωαδες</span>. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own +</p> +<p> + P.S. See those lines in the <i>Athenæum</i> on Pulci with Hunt's + translation—all wrong—'<i>che non si sente</i>,' being—'that one does + not <i>hear</i> him' i.e. the ordinarily noisy fellow—and the rest, male, + pessime! Sic verte, meo periculo, mî ocelle! +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?<br> +He just now yonder in the copse has '<i>gone it</i>' (<i>n</i>'andò)<br> +Because across his mind there came a fancy;<br> +He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!<br> +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Now Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then read <i>this</i> which I + really told Hunt and got his praise for. Poor dear wonderful + persecuted Pietro d'Abano wrote this quatrain on the people's plaguing + him about his mathematical studies and wanting to burn him—he helped + to build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still extant, and + passes for a conjuror in his country to this day—when there is a + storm the mothers tell the children that he is in the air; his pact + with the evil one obliged him to drink no <i>milk</i>; no natural human + food! You know Tieck's novel about him? Well, this quatrain is said, I + believe truly, to have been discovered in a well near Padua some fifty + years ago. +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso<br> +Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra—<br> +Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,<br> +E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Affecting, is it not, in its simple, child like plaining? Now so, if I + remember, I turned it—word for word— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Studying my ciphers, with the compass<br> +I reckon—who soon shall be below ground,<br> +Because of my lore they make great 'rumpus,'<br> +And against me war makes each dull rogue round. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Say that you forgive me to-morrow! +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">[The following is in E.B.B.'s handwriting.] +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">With my compass I take up my ciphers, poor scholar;<br> +Who myself shall be taken down soon under the ground ...<br> +Since the world at my learning roars out in its choler,<br> +And the blockheads have fought me all round. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 10, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest, I have been possessed by your 'Luria' just as you would + have me, and I should like you to understand, not simply how fine a + conception the whole work seems to me, so developed, but how it has + moved and affected me, without the ordinary means and dialect of + pathos, by that calm attitude of moral grandeur which it has—it is + very fine. For the execution, <i>that</i> too is worthily done—although I + agree with you, that a little quickening and drawing in closer here + and there, especially towards the close where there is no time to + lose, the reader feels, would make the effect stronger—but you will + look to it yourself—and such a conception <i>must</i> come in thunder and + lightning, as a chief god would—<i>must</i> make its own way ... and will + not let its poet go until he speaks it out to the ultimate syllable. + Domizia disappoints me rather. You might throw a flash more of light + on her face—might you not? But what am I talking? I think it a + magnificent work—a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men against + their 'heroes,' and (what is peculiar) an <i>humane</i> exposition ... not + misanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things: for the + return, the remorse, saves it—and the 'Too late' of the repentance + and compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors + and victim. We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward ... + '<i>That is done.</i>' And now—surely you think well of the work as a + whole? You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it—and of the + <i>subtilty</i> too, for it is subtle—too subtle perhaps for stage + purposes, though as clear, ... as to expression ... as to medium ... + as 'bricks and mortar' ... shall I say? +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">'A people is but the attempt of many<br> +To rise to the completer life of one.' +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">There is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine <i>he</i> is, your Luria, + when he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and + half-disdain of Domizia. Ah—Domizia! would it hurt her to make her + more a woman ... a little ... I wonder! +</p> +<p> + So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read + <i>through</i> ... since I have read the fifth twice over. And remember, + please, that I am to read, besides, the 'Soul's Tragedy,' and that I + shall dun you for it presently. Because you told me it was finished, + otherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and + that I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes + by driving you into work. It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and + heart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these + productions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your + head, and does all the harm on Saturdays and so many other days + besides. +</p> +<p> + To-day—how are you? It <i>was</i> right and just for me to write this + time, after the two dear notes ... the one on Saturday night which + made me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and + the other on Monday morning which took me unaware—such a note, <i>that</i> + was! Oh it <i>was</i> right and just that I should not teaze you to send me + another after those two others,—yet I was very near doing it—yet I + should like infinitely to hear to-day how you + are—unreasonable!—Well! you will write now—you will answer what I + am writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely—Remember! + Above all, you will care for your head. I have been thinking since + yesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as + usual to take something ... hot wine and water, or coffee? Will you + have coffee with me on Saturday? 'Shunning the salt,' will you have + the sugar? And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful + as to diet—and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa + affect your head—<i>for</i> or <i>against</i>! Then you do not touch wine—and + perhaps you ought. Surely something may be found or done to do you + good. If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by + this time and quite well perhaps. +</p> +<p> + This morning I had a letter from Miss Martineau and really read it to + the end without thinking it too long, which is extraordinary for me + just now, and scarcely ordinary in the letter, and indeed it is a + delightful letter, as letters go, which are not yours! You shall take + it with you on Saturday to read, and you shall see that it is worth + reading, and interesting for Wordsworth's sake and her own. Mr. + Kenyon has it now, because he presses on to have her letters, and I + should not like to tell him that you had it first from me.... Also + Saturday will be time enough. +</p> +<p> + Oh—poor Mr. Horne! shall I tell you some of his offences? That he + desires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till + eight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the + water-glasses at great dinners. That being in the midst of + sportsmen—rural aristocrats—lords of soil—and all talking learnedly + of pointers' noses and spaniels' ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a + mocking paraphrase—'If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.' The + wit is certainly doubtful!—That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he + will go on Wednesday instead.—That he throws himself at full length + with a gesture approaching to a 'summerset' on satin sofas. That he + giggles. That he only <i>thinks</i> he can talk. That his ignorance on all + subjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw + Percy's collection. That he asked <i>who</i> wrote 'Drink to me only with + thine eyes.' That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to + speak at a public meeting, he said to a compassionate friend 'I got + very well out of <i>that</i>.' That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he + employed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for + nobody's poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly + illustrious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he + doesn't care '<i>which</i> side.' That he is always talking of 'my shares,' + 'my income,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this + is <i>my</i> 'lastly' and not Miss Mitford's, who is far from being out of + breath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses—that he has gone + out at half past five and 'proposed' to Miss M or N with fifty + thousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report + herself) came back to tea and the same evening 'fell in love' with + Miss O or P ... with forty thousand—went away for a few months, and + upon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of + four blood horses—has a prospect now of a Miss R or S—with hounds, + perhaps. +</p> +<p> + Too, too bad—isn't it? I would repeat none of it except to you—and + as to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some, + exaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a + fine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the + listener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all + round him. Also, he rather 'wears his heart on his sleeve,' there is + no denying—and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than + other men. But for the base traffic of the affair—I do not believe a + word. He is too generous—has too much real sensibility. I fought his + battle, poor Orion. 'And so,' she said 'you believe it possible for a + disinterested man to become really attached to two women, heiresses, + on the same day?' I doubted the <i>fact</i>. And then she showed me a note, + an autograph note from the poet, confessing the M or N part of the + business—while Miss O or P confessed herself, said Miss Mitford. But + I persisted in doubting, notwithstanding the lady's confessions, or + convictions, as they might be. And just think of Mr. Horne not having + tact enough to keep out of these multitudinous scrapes, for those few + days which on three separate occasions he paid Miss Mitford in a + neighbourhood where all were strangers to him,—and never outstaying + his week! He must have been <i>foolish</i>, read it all how we may. +</p> +<p> + And so am <i>I</i>, to write this 'personal talk' to you when you will not + care for it—yet you asked me, and it may make you smile, though + Wordsworth's tea-kettle outsings it all. +</p> +<p> + When your Monday letter came, I was reading the criticism on Hunt and + his Italian poets, in the <i>Examiner</i>. How I liked to be pulled by the + sleeve to your translations!—How I liked everything!—Pulci, Pietro + ... and you, best! +</p> +<p> + Yet here's a naiveté which I found in your letter! I will write it out + that you may read it— +</p> +<p> + 'However it' (the headache) 'was no sooner gone in a degree, than a + worse plague came—<i>I sate thinking of you</i>.' +</p> +<p> + Very satisfactory <i>that</i> is, and very clear. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of yourself. The cold + makes me <i>languid</i>, as heat is apt to make everybody; but I am not + unwell, and keep up the fire and the thoughts of you. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your worse ... worst plague</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + I shall hear? yes! And admire my obedience in having written 'a long + letter' <i>to</i> the letter! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 11, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + My sweetest 'plague,' <i>did</i> I really write that sentence so, without + gloss or comment in close vicinity? I can hardly think it—but you + know well, well where the real plague lay,—that I thought of you as + thinking, in your infinite goodness, of untoward chances which had + kept me from you—and if I did not dwell more particularly on that + thinking of <i>yours</i>, which became as I say, in the knowledge of it, a + plague when brought before me <i>with</i> the thought of you,—if I passed + this slightly over it was for pure unaffected shame that I should take + up the care and stop the 'reverie serene' of—ah, the rhyme <i>lets</i> me + say—'sweetest eyes were ever seen'—were <i>ever</i> seen! And yourself + confess, in the Saturday's note, to having been 'unhappy for half an + hour till' &c. &c.—and do not I feel <i>that</i> here, and am not I + plagued by it? +</p> +<p> + Well, having begun at the end of your letter, dearest, I will go back + gently (that is backwards) and tell you I 'sate thinking' too, and + with no greater comfort, on the cold yesterday. The pond before the + window was frozen ('so as to bear sparrows' somebody said) and I knew + you would feel it—'but you are not unwell'—really? thank God—and + the month wears on. Beside I have got a reassurance—you asked me once + if I were superstitious, I remember (as what do I forget that you + say?). However that may be, yesterday morning as I turned to look for + a book, an old fancy seized me to try the 'sortes' and dip into the + first page of the first I chanced upon, for my fortune; I said 'what + will be the event of my love for Her'—in so many words—and my book + turned out to be—'Cerutti's Italian Grammar!'—a propitious source of + information ... the best to be hoped, what could it prove but some + assurance that you were in the Dative Case, or I, not in the ablative + absolute? I do protest that, with the knowledge of so many horrible + pitfalls, or rather spring guns with wires on every bush ... such + dreadful possibilities of stumbling on 'conditional moods,' 'imperfect + tenses,' 'singular numbers,'—I should have been too glad to put up + with the safe spot for the sole of my foot though no larger than + afforded by such a word as 'Conjunction,' 'possessive pronoun—,' + secure so far from poor Tippet's catastrophe. Well, I ventured, and + what did I find? <i>This</i>—which I copy from the book now—'<i>If we love + in the other world as we do in this, I shall love thee to + eternity</i>'—from 'Promiscuous Exercises,' to be translated into + Italian, at the end. +</p> +<p> + And now I reach Horne and his characteristics—of which I can tell you + with confidence that they are grossly misrepresented where not + altogether false—whether it proceed from inability to see what one + may see, or disinclination, I cannot say. I know very little of Horne, + but my one visit to him a few weeks ago would show the uncandidness of + those charges: for instance, he talked a good deal about horses, + meaning to ride in Ireland, and described very cleverly an old hunter + he had hired once,—how it galloped and could not walk; also he + propounded a theory of the true method of behaving in the saddle when + a horse rears, which I besought him only to practise in fancy on the + sofa, where he lay telling it. So much for professing his ignorance in + that matter! On a sofa he does throw himself—but when thrown there, + he can talk, with Miss Mitford's leave, admirably,—I never heard + better stories than Horne's—some Spanish-American incidents of travel + want printing—or have been printed, for aught I know. That he cares + for nobody's poetry is <i>false</i>, he praises more unregardingly of his + own retreat, more unprovidingly for his own fortune,—(do I speak + clearly?)—less like a man who himself has written somewhat in the + 'line' of the other man he is praising—which 'somewhat' has to be + guarded in its interests, &c., less like the poor professional praise + of the 'craft' than any other I ever met—instance after instance + starting into my mind as I write. To his income I never heard him + allude—unless one should so interpret a remark to me this last time + we met, that he had been on some occasion put to inconvenience by + somebody's withholding ten or twelve pounds due to him for an article, + and promised in the confidence of getting them to a tradesman, which + does not look like 'boasting of his income'! As for the heiresses—I + don't believe one word of it, of the succession and transition and + trafficking. Altogether, what miserable 'set-offs' to the achievement + of an 'Orion,' a 'Marlowe,' a 'Delora'! Miss Martineau understands him + better. +</p> +<p> + Now I come to myself and my health. I am quite well now—at all + events, much better, just a little turning in the head—since you + appeal to my sincerity. For the coffee—thank you, indeed thank you, + but nothing after the '<i>oenomel</i>' and before half past six. <i>I</i> know + all about that song and its Greek original if Horne does not—and can + tell you—, how truly...! +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">The thirst that from the soul doth rise<br> + +Doth ask a drink divine—<br> +But might I of Jove's nectar sup<br> + +I would not change for thine! <i>No, no, no!</i> +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">And by the bye, I have misled you as my wont is, on the subject of + wine, 'that I do not touch it'—not habitually, nor so as to feel the + loss of it, that on a principle; but every now and then of course. +</p> +<p> + And now, 'Luria', so long as the parts cohere and the whole is + discernible, all will be well yet. I shall not look at it, nor think + of it, for a week or two, and then see what I have forgotten. Domizia + is all wrong; I told you I knew that her special colour had faded,—it + was but a bright line, and the more distinctly deep that it was so + narrow. One of my half dozen words on my scrap of paper 'pro memoria' + was, under the 'Act V.' '<i>she loves</i>'—to which I could not bring it, + you see! Yet the play requires it still,—something may yet be + effected, though.... I meant that she should propose to go to Pisa + with him, and begin a new life. But there is no hurry—I suppose it is + no use publishing much before Easter—I will try and remember what my + whole character <i>did</i> mean—it was, in two words, understood at the + time by 'panther's-beauty'—on which hint I ought to have spoken! But + the work grew cold, and you came between, and the sun put out the fire + on the hearth <i>nec vult panthera domari</i>! +</p> +<p> + For the 'Soul's Tragedy'—<i>that</i> will surprise you, I think. There is + no trace of you there,—you have not put out the black face of + <i>it</i>—it is all sneering and <i>disillusion</i>—and shall not be printed + but burned if you say the word—now wait and see and then say! I will + bring the first of the two parts next Saturday. +</p> +<p> + And now, dearest, I am with you—and the other matters are forgotten + already. God bless you, I am ever your own R. You will write to me I + trust? And tell me how to bear the cold. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 12, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah, the 'sortes'! Is it a double oracle—'swan and shadow'—do you + think? or do my eyes see double, dazzled by the light of it? 'I shall + love thee to eternity'—I <i>shall</i>. +</p> +<p> + And as for the wine, I did not indeed misunderstand you 'as my wont + is,' because I understood simply that 'habitually' you abstained from + wine, and I meant exactly that perhaps it would be better for your + health to take it habitually. It <i>might</i>, you know—not that I pretend + to advise. Only when you look so much too pale sometimes, it comes + into one's thoughts that you ought not to live on cresses and cold + water. Strong coffee, which is the nearest to a stimulant that I dare + to take, as far as ordinary diet goes, will almost always deliver <i>me</i> + from the worst of headaches, but there is no likeness, no comparison. + And your 'quite well' means that dreadful 'turning' still ... still! + Now do not think any more of the Domizias, nor 'try to remember,' + which is the most wearing way of thinking. The more I read and read + your 'Luria,' the grander it looks, and it will make its own road with + all understanding men, you need not doubt, and still less need you try + to make me uneasy about the harm I have done in 'coming between,' and + all the rest of it. I wish never to do you greater harm than just + <i>that</i>, and then with a white conscience 'I shall love thee to + eternity!... dearest! You have made a golden work out of your + 'golden-hearted Luria'—as once you called him to me, and I hold it in + the highest admiration—<i>should</i>, if you were precisely nothing to me. + And still, the fifth act <i>rises</i>! That is certain. Nevertheless I seem + to agree with you that your hand has vacillated in your Domizia. We do + not know her with as full a light on her face, as the other + persons—we do not see the <i>panther</i>,—no, certainly we do not—but + you will do a very little for her which will be everything, after a + time ... and I assure you that if you were to ask for the manuscript + before, you should not have a page of it—<i>now</i>, you are only to rest. + What a work to rest upon! Do consider what a triumph it is! The more I + read, the more I think of it, the greater it grows—and as to 'faded + lines,' you never cut a pomegranate that was redder in the deep of it. + Also, no one can say 'This is not clearly written.' The people who are + at 'words of one syllable' may be puzzled by you and Wordsworth + together this time ... as far as the expression goes. Subtle thoughts + you always must have, in and out of 'Sordello'—and the objectors + would find even Plato (though his medium is as lucid as the water that + ran beside the beautiful plane-tree!) a little difficult perhaps. +</p> +<p> + To-day Mr. Kenyon came, and do you know, he has made a beatific + confusion between last Saturday and next Saturday, and said to me he + had told Miss Thomson to mind to come on Friday if she wished to see + me ... 'remembering' (he added) 'that Mr. Browning took <i>Saturday</i>!!' + So I let him mistake the one week for the other—'Mr. Browning took + Saturday,' it was true, both ways. Well—and then he went on to tell + me that he had heard from Mrs. Jameson who was at Brighton and unwell, + and had written to say this and that to him, and to enquire + besides—now, what do you think, she enquired besides? 'how you and + ... Browning were' said Mr. Kenyon—I write his words. He is coming, + perhaps to-morrow, or perhaps Sunday—Saturday is to have a twofold + safety. That is, if you are not ill again. Dearest, you will not think + of coming if you are ill ... unwell even. I shall not be frightened + next time, as I told you—I shall have the precedent. Before, I had to + think! 'It has never happened <i>so</i>—there must be a cause—and if it + is a very, very, bad cause, why no one will tell <i>me</i> ... it will not + seem <i>my</i> concern'—<i>that</i> was my thought on Saturday. But another + time ... only, if it is possible to keep well, do keep well, beloved, + and think of me instead of Domizia, and let there be no other time for + your suffering ... my waiting is nothing. I shall remember for the + future that you may have the headache—and do you remember it too! +</p> +<p> + For Mr. Horne I take your testimony gladly and believingly. <i>She + blots</i> with her <i>eyes</i> sometimes. She hates ... and loves, in extreme + degrees. We have, once or twice or thrice, been on the border of + mutual displeasure, on this very subject, for I grew really vexed to + observe the trust on one side and the <i>dyspathy</i> on the other—using + the mildest of words. You see, he found himself, down in Berkshire, in + quite a strange element of society,—he, an artist in his good and his + evil,—and the people there, 'county families,' smoothly plumed in + their conventions, and classing the ringlets and the aboriginal way of + using water-glasses among offences against the Moral Law. Then, + meaning to be agreeable, or fascinating perhaps, made it twenty times + worse. Writing in albums about the graces, discoursing meditated + impromptus at picnics, playing on the guitar in fancy dresses,—all + these things which seemed to poor Orion as natural as his own stars I + dare say, and just the things suited to the <i>genus</i> poet, and to + himself specifically,—were understood by the natives and their 'rural + deities' to signify, that he intended to marry one half the county, + and to run away with the other. But Miss Mitford should have known + better—<i>she</i> should. And she <i>would</i> have known better, if she had + liked him—for the liking could have been unmade by no such offences. + She is too fervent a friend—she can be. Generous too, she can be + without an effort; and I have had much affection from her—and accuse + myself for seeming to have less—but— +</p> +<p> + May God bless you!—I end in haste after this long lingering. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + Not unwell—<i>I</i> am not! I forgot it, which proves how I am not. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 13, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Two nights ago I read the 'Soul's Tragedy' once more, and though there + were not a few points which still struck me as successful in design + and execution, yet on the whole I came to a decided opinion, that it + will be better to postpone the publication of it for the present. It + is not a good ending, an auspicious wind-up of this series; + subject-matter and style are alike unpopular even for the literary + <i>grex</i> that stands aloof from the purer <i>plebs</i>, and uses that + privilege to display and parade an ignorance which the other is + altogether unconscious of—so that, if 'Luria' is <i>clearish</i>, the + 'Tragedy' would be an unnecessary troubling the waters. Whereas, if I + printed it first in order, my readers, according to custom, would make + the (comparatively) little they did not see into, a full excuse for + shutting their eyes at the rest, and we may as well part friends, so + as not to meet enemies. But, at bottom, I believe the proper objection + is to the immediate, <i>first</i> effect of the whole—its moral + effect—which is dependent on the contrary supposition of its being + really understood, in the main drift of it. Yet I don't know; for I + wrote it with the intention of producing the best of all + effects—perhaps the truth is, that I am tired, rather, and desirous + of getting done, and 'Luria' will answer my purpose so far. Will not + the best way be to reserve this unlucky play and in the event of a + second edition—as Moxon seems to think such an apparition + possible—might not this be quietly inserted?—in its place, too, for + it was written two or three years ago. I have lost, of late, interest + in dramatic writing, as you know, and, perhaps, occasion. And, + dearest, I mean to take your advice and be quiet awhile and let my + mind get used to its new medium of sight; seeing all things, as it + does, through you: and then, let all I have done be the prelude and + the real work begin. I felt it would be so before, and told you at the + very beginning—do you remember? And you spoke of Io 'in the proem.' + How much more should follow now! +</p> +<p> + And if nothing follows, I have <i>you</i>. +</p> +<p> + I shall see you to-morrow and be happy. To-day—is it the weather or + what?—something depresses me a little—to-morrow brings the remedy + for it all. I don't know why I mention such a matter; except that I + tell you everything without a notion of after-consequence; and because + your dearest, dearest presence seems under any circumstances as if + created just to help me <i>there</i>; if my spirits rise they fly to you; + if they fall, they hold by you and cease falling—as now. Bless you, + Ba—my own best blessing that you are! But a few hours and I am with + you, beloved! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing + to you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead ... which I might + have done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both + thoughts of 'next year,' as you suggested them:—because while you are + with me I see only <i>you</i>, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of + yours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so + deep—so that there may be ever so many 'mores,' and no 'more' wonder + of mine!—but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no 'more' + light nor speaking until Thursday, why <i>then</i>, that I do not see <i>you</i> + but <i>me</i>,—<i>then</i> comes the reaction,—the natural lengthening of the + shadows at sunset,—and <i>then</i>, the 'less, less, less' grows to seem + as natural to my fate, as the 'more' seemed to your nature—I being I! +</p> +<p> + <i>Sunday.</i>—Well!—you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth, + over and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future, + scarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never + beyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the + question which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your + happiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in + what I called the future—but the tops of the trees that looked + towards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into + the river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green + again, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can + it be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also + the future never seemed to belong to me so little—never! It might + appear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself + sometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am—from the sort of + anxiety which might be well connected with my own position <i>here</i>, and + which is personal to myself. <i>That</i> is all thrown behind—into the + bushes—long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before. + Agitation comes from indecision—and <i>I</i> was decided from the first + hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really. + Now,—as the Euphuists used to say,—I am 'more thine than my own' ... + it is a literal truth—and my future belongs to you; if it was mine, + it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if + it was given ... beloved.... +</p> +<p> + So you see! +</p> +<p> + Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather + strange sympathy and dyspathy—the sympathy having concerned the genus + <i>jilt</i> (as vulgarly called) male and female—and the dyspathy—the + whole class of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what + they call 'love' to what they call 'duty.' There are exceptional cases + of course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with + a little contempt to those latter proofs of strength—or weakness, as + it may be:—people are not usually praised for giving up their + religion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their 'holy + things'—while believing them still to be religious and sacramental! + On the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is + possible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women + perhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the + mind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and + retreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth + which is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most + courageous for the truth's sake, and instead of blaming them I hold + them in honour, for me, and always did and shall. +</p> +<p> + And while I write, you are 'very ill'—very ill!—how it looks, + written down <i>so</i>! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had + tossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask + Wilson how <i>she</i> thought you were looking, ... and she 'did not know' + ... she 'had not observed' ... 'only certainly Mr. Browning ran + up-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.' +</p> +<p> + Now promise me dearest, dearest—not to trifle with your health. Not + to neglect yourself ... not to tire yourself ... and besides to take + the advice of your medical friend as to diet and general + treatment:—because there must be a wrong and a right in everything, + and the right is very important under your circumstances ... if you + have a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for + instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at + night, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache—for the + affection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just + as if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy + doing good—and could it <i>increase</i> the evil?—mustard mixed with the + water, remember. Everything approaching to <i>congestion</i> is full of + fear—I tremble to think of it—and I bring no remedy by this teazing + neither! But you will not be 'wicked' nor 'unkind,' nor provoke the + evil consciously—you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at + nights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement + of composition—you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you, + and at intervals grow so frightened! Think <i>you</i>, that you are three + times as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest,—because + you are more than three times the larger planet—and because too, you + have known other sources of light and happiness ... but I need not say + this—and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day ... + may I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own + health. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the 'Soul's + Tragedy' should be written out, I can read <i>that</i> perhaps, without + drawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep + off altogether for the present—and let it be as you incline. I do not + speak of 'Luria.' +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right">BA. +</p> +<p> + If it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should say, almost, Wednesday, + instead of Thursday—I want to see you so much, and to see for myself + about the looks and spirits, only it would not do if he found you here + on Wednesday. Let him come to-morrow or on Tuesday, and Wednesday will + be safe—shall we consider? what do you think? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Here is the letter again, dearest: I suppose it gives me the same + pleasure, in reading, as you—and Mr. K. as me, and anybody else as + him; if all the correspondence which was claimed again and burnt on + some principle or other some years ago be at all of the nature of this + sample, the measure seems questionable. Burn anybody's <i>real</i> + letters, well and good: they move and live—the thoughts, feelings, + and expressions even,—in a self-imposed circle limiting the + experience of two persons only—<i>there</i> is the standard, and to <i>that</i> + the appeal—how should a third person know? His presence breaks the + line, so to speak, and lets in a whole tract of country on the + originally inclosed spot—so that its trees, which were from side to + side there, seem left alone and wondering at their sudden unimportance + in the broad land; while its 'ferns such as I never saw before' and + which have been petted proportionably, look extravagant enough amid + the new spread of good honest grey grass that is now the earth's + general wear. So that the significance is lost at once, and whole + value of such letters—the cypher changed, the vowel-points removed: + but how can that affect clever writing like this? What do you, to whom + it is addressed, see in it more than the world that wants to see it + and shan't have it? One understands shutting an unprivileged eye to + the ineffable mysteries of those 'upper-rooms,' now that the broom and + dust pan, stocking-mending and gingerbread-making are invested with + such unforeseen reverence ... but the carriage-sweep and quarry, + together with Jane and our baskets, and a pleasant shadow of + Wordsworth's Sunday hat preceding his own rapid strides in the + direction of Miss Fenwick's house—surely, 'men's eyes were made to + see, so let them gaze' at all <i>this</i>! And so I, gazing with a clear + conscience, am very glad to hear so much good of a very good person + and so well told. She plainly sees the proper use and advantage of a + country-life; and <i>that</i> knowledge gets to seem a high point of + attainment doubtless by the side of the Wordsworth she speaks of—for + <i>mine</i> he shall not be as long as I am able! Was ever such a '<i>great</i>' + poet before? Put one trait with the other—the theory of rural + innocence—alternation of 'vulgar trifles' with dissertating with + style of 'the utmost grandeur that <i>even you</i> can conceive' (speak for + yourself, Miss M.!)—and that amiable transition from two o'clock's + grief at the death of one's brother to three o'clock's happiness in + the 'extraordinary mesmeric discourse' of one's friend. All this, and + the rest of the serene and happy inspired daily life which a piece of + 'unpunctuality' can ruin, and to which the guardian 'angel' brings as + crowning qualification the knack of poking the fire adroitly—of + this—what can one say but that—no, best hold one's tongue and read + the 'Lyrical Ballads' with finger in ear. Did not Shelley say long ago + 'He had no more <i>imagination</i> than a pint-pot'—though in those days + he used to walk about France and Flanders like a man? <i>Now</i>, he is + 'most comfortable in his worldly affairs' and just this comes of it! + He lives the best twenty years of his life after the way of his own + heart—and when one presses in to see the result of the rare + experiment ... what the <i>one</i> alchemist whom fortune has allowed to + get all his coveted materials and set to work at last in earnest with + fire and melting-pot—what <i>he</i> produces after all the talk of him and + the like of him; why, you get <i>pulvis et cinis</i>—a man at the mercy of + the tongs and shovel! +</p> +<p> + Well! Let us despair at nothing, but, wishing success to the newer + aspirant, expect better things from Miss M. when the 'knoll,' and + 'paradise,' and their facilities, operate properly; and that she will + make a truer estimate of the importance and responsibilities of + 'authorship' than she does at present, if I understand rightly the + sense in which she describes her own life as it means to be; for in + one sense it is all good and well, and quite natural that she should + like 'that sort of strenuous handwork' better than book-making; like + the play better than the labour, as we are apt to do. If she realises + a very ordinary scheme of literary life, planned under the eye of God + not 'the public,' and prosecuted under the constant sense of the + night's coming which ends it good or bad—then, she will be sure to + 'like' the rest and sport—teaching her maids and sewing her gloves + and making delicate visitors comfortable—so much more rational a + resource is the worst of them than gin-and-water, for instance. But + if, as I rather suspect, these latter are to figure as a virtual + <i>half</i> duty of the whole Man—as of equal importance (on the ground of + the innocence and utility of such occupations) with the book-making + aforesaid—always supposing <i>that</i> to be of the right kind—<i>then</i> I + respect Miss M. just as I should an Archbishop of Canterbury whose + business was the teaching A.B.C. at an infant-school—he who might set + on the Tens to instruct the Hundreds how to convince the Thousands of + the propriety of doing that and many other things. Of course one will + respect him only the more if when <i>that</i> matter is off his mind he + relaxes at such a school instead of over a chess-board; as it will + increase our love for Miss M. to find that making 'my good Jane (from + Tyne-mouth)'—'happier and—I hope—wiser' is an amusement, or more, + after the day's progress towards the 'novel for next year' which is to + inspire thousands, beyond computation, with the ardour of making + innumerable other Janes and delicate relatives happier and wiser—who + knows but as many as Burns did, and does, so make happier and wiser? + Only, <i>his quarry</i> and after-solace was that 'marble bowl often + replenished with whiskey' on which Dr. Curry discourses mournfully, + 'Oh, be wiser Thou!'—and remember it was only <i>after</i> Lord Bacon had + written to an end <i>his</i> Book—given us for ever the Art of + Inventing—whether steam-engine or improved dust-pan—that he took on + himself to do a little exemplary 'hand work'; got out on that cold St. + Alban's road to stuff a fowl with snow and so keep it fresh, and got + into his bed and died of the cold in his hands ('strenuous <i>hand</i> + work'—) before the snow had time to melt. He did not begin in his + youth by saying—'I have a horror of merely writing 'Novum Organums' + and shall give half my energies to the stuffing fowls'! +</p> +<p> + All this it is <i>my</i> amusement, of an indifferent kind, to put down + solely on the pleasant assurance contained in that postscript, of the + one way of never quarrelling with Miss M.—'by joining in her plan + and practice of plain speaking'—could she but 'get people to do it!' + Well, she gets me for a beginner: the funny thing would be to know + what Chorley's desperate utterance amounted to! Did you ever hear of + the plain speaking of some of the continental lottery-projectors? An + estate on the Rhine, for instance, is to be disposed of, and the + holder of the lucky ticket will find himself suddenly owner of a + mediæval castle with an unlimited number of dependencies—vineyards, + woods, pastures, and so forth—all only waiting the new master's + arrival—while inside, all is swept and garnished (not to say, + varnished)—the tables are spread, the wines on the board, all is + ready for the reception <i>but</i> ... here 'plain speaking' becomes + necessary—it prevents quarrels, and, could the projector get people + to practise it as he does all would be well; so he, at least, will + speak plainly—you hear what <i>is</i> provided but, he cannot, dares not + withhold what is <i>not</i>—there is then, to speak plainly,—no night + cap! You <i>will</i> have to bring your own night cap. The projector + furnishes somewhat, as you hear, but not <i>all</i>—and now—the worst is + heard,—will you quarrel with him? Will my own dear, dearest Ba please + and help me here, and fancy Chorley's concessions, and tributes, and + recognitions, and then, at the very end, the 'plain words,' to + counterbalance all, that have been to overlook and pardon? +</p> +<p> + Oh, my own Ba, hear <i>my</i> plain speech—and how this is <i>not</i> an + attempt to frighten you out of your dear wish to '<i>hear</i> from me'—no, + indeed—but a whim, a caprice,—and now it is out! over, done with! + And now I am with you again—it is to <i>you</i> I shall write next. Bless + you, ever—my beloved. I am much better, indeed—and mean to be well. + And you! But I will write—this goes for nothing—or only <i>this</i>, that + I am your very own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + My long letter is with you, dearest, to show how serious my illness + was 'while you wrote': unless you find that letter too foolish, as I + do on twice thinking—or at all events a most superfluous bestowment + of handwork while the heart was elsewhere, and with you—never more + so! Dear, dear Ba, your adorable goodness sinks into me till it nearly + pains,—so exquisite and strange is the pleasure: <i>so</i> you care for + me, and think of me, and write to me!—I shall never die for you, and + if it could be so, what would death prove? But I can live on, your own + as now,—utterly your own. +</p> +<p> + Dear Ba, do you suppose we differ on so plain a point as that of the + superior wisdom, and generosity, too, of announcing such a change &c. + at the eleventh hour? There can be no doubt of it,—and now, what of + it to me? +</p> +<p> + But I am not going to write to-day—only this—that I am better, + having not been quite so well last night—so I shut up books (that is, + of my own) and mean to think about nothing but you, and you, and still + you, for a whole week—so all will come right, I hope! <i>May</i> I take + Wednesday? And do you say that,—hint at the possibility of that, + because you have been reached by my own remorse at feeling that if I + had kept my appointment <i>last</i> Saturday (but one)—Thursday would have + been my day this past week, and this very Monday had been gained? + Shall I not lose a day for ever unless I get Wednesday and + Saturday?—yet ... care ... dearest—let nothing horrible happen. +</p> +<p> + If I do not hear to the contrary to-morrow—or on Wednesday early— +</p> +<p> + But write and bless me dearest, most dear Ba. God bless you ever— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 17, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + <i>Méchant comme quatre!</i> you are, and not deserving to be let see the + famous letter—is there any grammar in <i>that</i> concatenation, can you + tell me, now that you are in an arch-critical humour? And remember + (turning back to the subject) that personally she and I are strangers + and that therefore what she writes for me is naturally scene-painting + to be looked at from a distance, done with a masterly hand and most + amiable intention, but quite a different thing of course from the + intimate revelations of heart and mind which make a living thing of a + letter. If she had sent such to me, I should not have sent it to Mr. + Kenyon, but then, she would not have sent it to me in any case. What + she <i>has</i> sent me might be a chapter in a book and has the life proper + to itself, and I shall not let you try it by another standard, even if + you wished, but you don't—for I am not so <i>bête</i> as not to understand + how the jest crosses the serious all the way you write. Well—and Mr. + Kenyon wants the letter the second time, not for himself, but for Mr. + Crabb Robinson who promises to let me have a new sonnet of + Wordsworth's in exchange for the loan, and whom I cannot refuse + because he is an intimate friend of Miss Martineau's and once allowed + me to read a whole packet of letters from her to him. She does not + object (as I have read under her hand) to her letters being shown + about in MS., notwithstanding the anathema against all printers of the + same (which completes the extravagance of the unreason, I think) and + people are more anxious to see them from their presumed nearness to + annihilation. I, for my part, value letters (to talk literature) as + the most vital part of biography, and for any rational human being to + put his foot on the traditions of his kind in this particular class, + does seem to me as wonderful as possible. Who would put away one of + those multitudinous volumes, even, which stereotype Voltaire's + wrinkles of wit—even Voltaire? I can read book after book of such + reading—or could! And if her principle were carried out, there would + be an end! Death would be deader from henceforth. Also it is a wrong + selfish principle and unworthy of her whole life and profession, + because we should all be ready to say that if the secrets of our daily + lives and inner souls may instruct other surviving souls, let them be + open to men hereafter, even as they are to God now. Dust to dust, and + soul-secrets to humanity—there are natural heirs to all these things. + Not that I do not intimately understand the shrinking back from the + idea of publicity on any terms—not that I would not myself destroy + papers of mine which were sacred to <i>me</i> for personal reasons—but + then I never would call this natural weakness, virtue—nor would I, as + a teacher of the public, announce it and attempt to justify it as an + example to other minds and acts, I hope. +</p> +<p> + How hard you are on the mending of stockings and the rest of it! Why + not agree with me and like that sort of homeliness and simplicity in + combination with such large faculty as we must admit <i>there</i>? Lord + Bacon did a great deal of trifling besides the stuffing of the fowl + you mention—which I did not remember: and in fact, all the great work + done in the world, is done just by the people who know how to + trifle—do you not think so? When a man makes a principle of 'never + losing a moment,' he is a lost man. Great men are eager to find an + hour, and not to avoid losing a moment. 'What are you doing' said + somebody once (as I heard the tradition) to the beautiful Lady Oxford + as she sate in her open carriage on the race-ground—'Only a little + algebra,' said she. People who do a little algebra on the race-ground + are not likely to do much of anything with ever so many hours for + meditation. Why, you must agree with me in all this, so I shall not be + sententious any longer. Mending stockings is not exactly the sort of + pastime <i>I</i> should choose—who do things quite as trifling without the + utility—and even your Seigneurie peradventure.... I stop there for + fear of growing impertinent. The <i>argumentum ad hominem</i> is apt to + bring down the <i>argumentum ad baculum</i>, it is as well to remember in + time. +</p> +<p> + For Wordsworth ... you are right in a measure and by a standard—but I + have heard such really desecrating things of him, of his selfishness, + his love of money, his worldly <i>cunning</i> (rather than prudence) that I + felt a relief and gladness in the new chronicle;—and you can + understand how <i>that</i> was. Miss Mitford's doctrine is that everything + put into the poetry, is taken out of the man and lost utterly by him. + Her general doctrine about poets, quite amounts to that—I do not say + it too strongly. And knowing that such opinions are held by minds not + feeble, it is very painful (as it would be indeed in any case) to see + them apparently justified by royal poets like Wordsworth. Ah, but I + know an answer—I see one in my mind! +</p> +<p> + So again for the letters. Now ought I not to know about letters, I who + have had so many ... from chief minds too, as society goes in England + and America? And <i>your</i> letters began by being first to my intellect, + before they were first to my heart. All the letters in the world are + not like yours ... and I would trust them for that verdict with any + jury in Europe, if they were not so far too dear! Mr. Kenyon wanted to + make me show him your letters—I did show him the first, and resisted + gallantly afterwards, which made him say what vexed me at the moment, + ... 'oh—you let me see only <i>women's</i> letters,'—till I observed that + it was a breach of confidence, except in some cases, ... and that <i>I</i> + should complain very much, if anyone, man or woman, acted so by + myself. But nobody in the world writes like you—not so <i>vitally</i>—and + I have a right, if you please, to praise my letters, besides the + reason of it which is as good. +</p> +<p> + Ah—you made me laugh about Mr. Chorley's free speaking—and, without + the personal knowledge, I can comprehend how it could be nothing very + ferocious ... some 'pardonnez moi, vous êtes un ange.' The amusing + part is that by the same post which brought me the Ambleside document, + I heard from Miss Mitford 'that it was an admirable thing of Chorley + to have persisted in not allowing Harriet Martineau to quarrel with + him' ... so that there are laurels on both sides, it appears. +</p> +<p> + And I am delighted to hear from you to-day just <i>so</i>, though I + reproach you in turn just <i>so</i> ... because you were not 'depressed' in + writing all this and this and this which has made me laugh—you were + not, dearest—and you call yourself better, 'much better,' which means + a very little perhaps, but is a golden word, let me take it as I may. + May God bless you. Wednesday seems too near (now that this is Monday + and you are better) to be <i>our</i> day ... perhaps it does,—and Thursday + <i>is</i> close beside it at the worst. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Dearest I am your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Evening.<br> +[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] +</p> +<p> + Now forgive me, dearest of all, but I must teaze you just a little, + and entreat you, if only for the love of me, to have medical advice + and follow it <i>without further delay</i>. I like to have recourse to + these medical people quite as little as you can—but I am persuaded + that it is necessary—that it is at least <i>wise</i>, for you to do so + now, and, you see, you were 'not quite so well' again last night! So + will you, for me? Would <i>I</i> not, if you wished it? And on Wednesday, + yes, on Wednesday, come—that is, if coming on Wednesday should really + be not bad for you, for you <i>must</i> do what is right and kind, and I + doubt whether the omnibus-driving and the noises of every sort betwixt + us, should not keep you away for a little while—I trust you to do + what is best for both of us. +</p> +<p> + And it is not best ... it is not good even, to talk about 'dying for + me' ... oh, I do beseech you never to use such words. You make me feel + as if I were choking. Also it is nonsense—because nobody puts out a + candle for the light's sake. +</p> +<p> + Write <i>one line</i> to me to-morrow—literally so little—just to say how + you are. I know by the writing here, what <i>is</i>. Let me have the one + line by the eight o'clock post to-morrow, Tuesday. +</p> +<p> + For the rest it may be my 'goodness' or my badness, but the world + seems to have sunk away beneath my feet and to have left only you to + look to and hold by. Am I not to <i>feel</i>, then, any trembling of the + hand? the least trembling? +</p> +<p> + May God bless both of us—which is a double blessing for me + notwithstanding my badness. +</p> +<p> + <i>I trust you about Wednesday</i>—and if it should be wise and kind not + to come quite so soon, we will take it out of other days and lose not + one of them. And as for anything 'horrible' being likely to happen, do + not think of that either,—there can be nothing horrible while you are + not ill. So be well—try to be well—use the means and, well or ill, + let me have the one line to-morrow ... Tuesday. I send you the foolish + letter I wrote to-day in answer to your too long one—too long, was it + not, as you felt? And I, the writer of the foolish one, am + twice-foolish, and push poor 'Luria' out of sight, and refuse to + finish my notes on him till the harm he has done shall have passed + away. In my badness I bring false accusation, perhaps, against poor + Luria. +</p> +<p> + So till Wednesday—or as you shall fix otherwise. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">6-1/2 Tuesday Evening. +</p> +<p> + My dearest, your note reaches me only <i>now</i>, with an excuse from the + postman. The answer you expect, you shall have the only way possible. + I must make up a parcel so as to be able to knock and give it. I shall + be with you to-morrow, God willing—being quite well. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you ever— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 19, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + My sweetest, best, dearest Ba I <i>do</i> love you less, much less already, + and adore you more, more by so much more as I see of you, think of + you—I am yours just as much as those flowers; and you may pluck those + flowers to pieces or put them in your breast; it is not because you so + bless me now that you may not if you please one day—you will stop me + here; but it is the truth and I live in it. +</p> +<p> + I am quite well; indeed, this morning, <i>noticeably</i> well, they tell + me, and well I mean to keep if I can. +</p> +<p> + When I got home last evening I found this note—and I have <i>accepted</i>, + that I might say I could also keep an engagement, if so minded, at + Harley Street—thereby insinuating that other reasons <i>may</i> bring me + into the neighbourhood than <i>the</i> reason—but I shall either not go + there, or only for an hour at most. I also found a note headed + 'Strictly private and confidential'—so here it goes from my mouth to + my heart—pleasantly proposing that I should start in a few days for + St. Petersburg, as secretary to somebody going there on a 'mission of + humanity'—<i>grazie tante</i>! +</p> +<p> + Did you hear of my meeting someone at the door whom I take to have + been one of your brothers? +</p> +<p> + One thing vexed me in your letter—I will tell you, the praise of + <i>my</i> letters. Now, one merit they have—in language mystical—that of + having <i>no</i> merit. If I caught myself trying to write finely, + graphically &c. &c., nay, if I found myself conscious of having in my + own opinion, so written, all would be over! yes, over! I should be + respecting you inordinately, paying a proper tribute to your genius, + summoning the necessary collectedness,—plenty of all that! But the + feeling with which I write to you, not knowing that it is + writing,—with <i>you</i>, face and mouth and hair and eyes opposite me, + touching me, knowing that all <i>is</i> as I say, and helping out the + imperfect phrases from your own intuition—<i>that</i> would be gone—and + <i>what</i> in its place? 'Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we write to + Ambleside.' No, no, love, nor can it ever be so, nor should it ever be + so if—even if, preserving all that intimate relation, with the + carelessness, <i>still</i>, somehow, was obtained with no effort in the + world, graphic writing and philosophic and what you please—for I + <i>will</i> be—<i>would</i> be, better than my works and words with an infinite + stock beyond what I put into convenient circulation whether in fine + speeches fit to remember, or fine passages to quote. For the rest, I + had meant to tell you before now, that you often put me 'in a maze' + when you particularize letters of mine—'such an one was kind' &c. I + know, sometimes I seem to give the matter up in despair, I take out + paper and fall thinking on you, and bless you with my whole heart and + then begin: 'What a fine day this is?' I distinctly remember having + done that repeatedly—but the converse is not true by any means, that + (when the expression may happen to fall more consentaneously to the + mind's motion) that less is felt, oh no! But the particular thought at + the time has not been of the <i>insufficiency</i> of expression, as in the + other instance. +</p> +<p> + Now I will leave off—to begin elsewhere—for I am always with you, + beloved, best beloved! Now you will write? And walk much, and sleep + more? Bless you, dearest—ever— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own, +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-marks, Mis-sent to Mitcham. February 19 and 20, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Best and kindest of all that ever were to be loved in dreams, and + wondered at and loved out of them, you are indeed! I cannot make you + feel how I felt that night when I knew that to save me an anxious + thought you had come so far so late—it was almost too much to feel, + and <i>is</i> too much to speak. So let it pass. You will never act so + again, ever dearest—you shall not. If the post sins, why leave the + sin to the post; and I will remember for the future, will be ready to + remember, how postmen are fallible and how you live at the end of a + lane—and not be uneasy about a silence if there should be one + unaccounted for. For the Tuesday coming, I shall remember that + too—who could forget it?... I put it in the niche of the wall, one + golden lamp more of your giving, to throw light purely down to the end + of my life—I do thank you. And the truth is, I <i>should</i> have been in + a panic, had there been no letter that evening—I was frightened the + day before, then reasoned the fears back and waited: and if there had + been no letter after all—. But you are supernaturally good and kind. + How can I ever 'return' as people say (as they might say in their + ledgers) ... any of it all? How indeed can I who have not even a heart + left of my own, to love you with? +</p> +<p> + I quite trust to your promise in respect to the medical advice, if + walking and rest from work do not prevent at once the recurrence of + those sensations—it was a promise, remember. And you will tell me the + very truth of how you are—and you will try the music, and not be + nervous, dearest. Would not <i>riding</i> be good for you—consider. And + why should you be 'alone' when your sister is in the house? How I keep + thinking of you all day—you cannot really be alone with so many + thoughts ... such swarms of thoughts, if you could but see them, + drones and bees together! +</p> +<p> + George came in from Westminster Hall after we parted yesterday and + said that he had talked with the junior counsel of the wretched + plaintiffs in the Ferrers case, and that the belief was in the mother + being implicated, although not from the beginning. It was believed too + that the miserable girl had herself taken step after step into the + mire, involved herself gradually, the first guilt being an + extravagance in personal expenses, which she lied and lied to account + for in the face of her family. 'Such a respectable family,' said + George, 'the grandfather in court looking venerable, and everyone + indignant upon being so disgraced by her!' But for the respectability + in the best sense, I do not quite see. That all those people should + acquiesce in the indecency (according to every standard of English + manners in any class of society) of thrusting the personal expenses of + a member of their family on Lord Ferrers, she still bearing their + name—and in those peculiar circumstances of her supposed position + too—where is the respectability? And they are furious with her, which + is not to be wondered at after all. Her counsel had an interview with + her previous to the trial, to satisfy themselves of her good faith, + and she was quite resolute and earnest, persisting in every statement. + On the coming out of the anonymous letters, Fitzroy Kelly said to the + juniors that if anyone could suggest a means of explanation, he would + be eager to carry forward the case, ... but for him he saw no way of + escaping from the fact of the guilt of their client. Not a voice could + speak for her. So George was told. There is no ground for a + prosecution for a conspiracy, he says, but she is open to the charge + for <i>forgery</i>, of course, and to the dreadful consequences, though it + is not considered at all likely that Lord Ferrers could wish to + disturb her beyond the ruin she has brought on her own life. +</p> +<p> + Think of Miss Mitford's growing quite cold about Mr. Chorley who has + spent two days with her lately, and of her saying in a letter to me + this morning that he is very much changed and grown to be 'a + presumptuous coxcomb.' He has displeased her in some way—that is + clear. What changes there are in the world. +</p> +<p> + Should I ever change to <i>you</i>, do you think, ... even if you came to + 'love me less'—not that I meant to reproach you with that + possibility. May God bless you, dear dearest. It is another miracle + (beside the many) that I get nearer to the mountains yet still they + seem more blue. Is not <i>that</i> strange? +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever and wholly</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, February 20, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + And I offended you by praising your letters—or rather <i>mine</i>, if you + please—as if I had not the right! Still, you shall not, shall not + fancy that I meant to praise them in the way you seem to think—by + calling them 'graphic,' 'philosophic,'—why, did I ever use such + words? I agree with you that if I could play critic upon your letters, + it would be an end!—but no, no ... I did not, for a moment. In what I + said I went back to my first impressions—and they were <i>vital</i> + letters, I said—which was the résumé of my thoughts upon the early + ones you sent me, because I felt your letters to be <i>you</i> from the + very first, and I began, from the beginning, to read every one several + times over. Nobody, I felt, nobody of all these writers, did write as + you did. Well!—and had I not a right to say <i>that</i> now at last, and + was it not natural to say just <i>that</i>, when I was talking of other + people's letters and how it had grown almost impossible for me to read + them; and do I deserve to be scolded? No indeed. +</p> +<p> + And if I had the misfortune to think now, when you say it is a fine + day, that <i>that</i> is said in more music than it could be said in by + another—where is the sin against <i>you</i>, I should like to ask. It is + yourself who is the critic, I think, after all. But over all the + brine, I hold my letters—just as Camoens did his poem. They are <i>best + to me</i>—and they are <i>best</i>. I knew what <i>they</i> were, before I knew + what <i>you</i> were—all of you. And I like to think that I never fancied + anyone on a level with you, even in a letter. +</p> +<p> + What makes you take them to be so bad, I suppose, is just feeling in + them how near we are. <i>You say that!</i>—not I. +</p> +<p> + Bad or good, you <i>are</i> better—yes, 'better than the works and + words'!—though it was very shameful of you to insinuate that I talked + of fine speeches and passages and graphical and philosophical + sentences, as if I had proposed a publication of 'Elegant Extracts' + from your letters. See what blasphemy one falls into through a + beginning of light speech! It is wiser to talk of St. Petersburg; for + all Voltaire's ... '<i>ne disons pas de mal de Nicolas</i>.' +</p> +<p> + Wiser—because you will not go. If you were going ... well!—but there + is no danger—it would not do you good to go, I am so happy this time + as to be able to think—and your 'mission of humanity' lies + nearer—'strictly private and confidential'? but not in Harley + Street—so if you go <i>there</i>, dearest, keep to the 'one hour' and do + not suffer yourself to be tired and stunned in those hot rooms and + made unwell again—it is plain that you cannot bear that sort of + excitement. For Mr. Kenyon's note, ... it was a great temptation to + make a day of Friday—but I resist both for Monday's sake and for + yours, because it seems to me safer not to hurry you from one house to + another till you are tired completely. I shall think of you so much + the nearer for Mr. Kenyon's note—which is something gained. In the + meanwhile you are better, which is everything, or seems so. Ever + dearest, do you remember what it is to me that you should be better, + and keep from being worse again—I mean, of course, <i>try</i> to keep from + being worse—be wise ... and do not stay long in those hot Harley + Street rooms. Ah—now you will think that I am afraid of the + unicorns!— +</p> +<p> + Through your being ill the other day I forgot, and afterwards went on + forgetting, to speak of and to return the ballad—which is delightful; + I have an unspeakable delight in those suggestive ballads, which seem + to make you touch with the end of your finger the full warm life of + other times ... so near they bring you, yet so suddenly all passes in + them. Certainly there is a likeness to your Duchess—it is a curious + crossing. And does it not strike you that a verse or two must be + wanting in the ballad—there is a gap, I fancy. +</p> +<p> + Tell Mr. Kenyon (if he enquires) that you come here on Monday instead + of Saturday—and if you can help it, do not mention Wednesday—it will + be as well, not. You met Alfred at the door—he came up to me + afterwards and observed that 'at last he had seen you!' 'Virgilium + tantum vidi!' +</p> +<p> + As to the thing which you try to say in the first page of this letter, + and which you 'stop' yourself in saying ... <i>I</i> need not stop you in + it.... +</p> +<p> + And now there is no time, if I am to sleep to-night. May God bless + you, dearest, dearest. +</p> +<p> + I must be your own while He blesses <i>me</i>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, February 20, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Here is my Ba's dearest <i>first</i> letter come four hours after the + second, with '<i>Mis-sent to Mitcham</i>' written on its face as a + reason,—one more proof of the negligence of somebody! But I <i>do</i> have + it at last—what should I say? what do you expect me to say? And the + first note seemed quite as much too kind as usual! +</p> +<p> + Let me write to-morrow, sweet? I am quite well and sure to mind all + you bid me. I shall do no more than look in at that place (they are + the cousins of a really good friend of mine, Dr. White—I go for + <i>him</i>) if even that—for to-morrow night I must go out again, I + fear—to pay the ordinary compliment for an invitation to the R.S.'s + <i>soirée</i> at Lord Northampton's. And then comes Monday—and to-night + any unicorn I may see I will not find myself at liberty to catch. + (N.B.—should you meditate really an addition to the 'Elegant + Extracts'—mind this last joke is none of mine but my father's; when + walking with me when a child, I remember, he bade a little urchin we + found fishing with a stick and a string for sticklebacks in a + ditch—'to mind that he brought any sturgeon he might catch to the + king'—he having a claim on such a prize, by courtesy if not right). +</p> +<p> + As for Chorley, he is neither the one nor the other of those ugly + things. One remembers Regan's 'Oh Heaven—so you will rail at <i>me</i>, + when you are in the mood.' But what a want of self-respect such + judgments argue, or rather, want of knowledge what true self-respect + is: 'So I believed yesterday, and <i>so</i> now—and yet am neither hasty, + nor inapprehensive, nor malevolent'—what then? +</p> +<p> + —But I will say more of my mind—(not of that)—to-morrow, for time + presses a little—so bless you my ever ever dearest—I love you + wholly. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 21, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + As my sisters did not dine at home yesterday and I see nobody else in + the evening, I never heard till just now and <i>from Papa himself</i>, that + 'George was invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter.' How + surprised you will be. It must have been a sudden thought of Mr. + Kenyon's. +</p> +<p> + And I have been thinking, thinking since last night that I wrote you + then a letter all but ... insolent ... which, do you know, I feel half + ashamed to look back upon this morning—particularly what I wrote + about 'missions of humanity'—now was it not insolent of me to write + so? If I could take my letter again I would dip it into Lethe between + the lilies, instead of the post office:—but I can't—so if you + wondered, you must forget as far as possible, and understand how it + was, and that I was in brimming spirits when I wrote, from two causes + ... first, because I had your letter which was a pure goodness of + yours, and secondly because you were 'noticeably' better you said, or + 'noticeably well' rather, to mind my quotations. So I wrote what I + wrote, and gave it to Arabel when she came in at midnight, to give it + to Henrietta who goes out before eight in the morning and often takes + charge of my letters, and it was too late, at the earliest this + morning, to feel a little ashamed. Miss Thomson told me that she had + determined to change the type of the few pages of her letterpress + which had been touched, and that therefore Mr. Burges's revisions of + my translations should be revised back again. She appears to be a very + acute person, full of quick perceptions—naturally quick, and + carefully trained—a little over anxious perhaps about mental lights, + and opening her eyes still more than she sees, which is a common fault + of clever people, if one must call it a fault. I like her, and she is + kind and cordial. Will she ask you to help her book with a translation + or two, I wonder. Perhaps—if the courage should come. Dearest, how I + shall think of you this evening, and how near you will seem, not to be + here. I had a letter from Mr. Mathews the other day, and smiled to + read in it just what I had expected, that he immediately sent Landor's + verses on you to a <i>few editors</i>, friends of his, in order to their + communication to the public. He received my apology for myself with + the utmost graciousness. A kind good man he is. +</p> +<p> + After all, do you know, I am a little vexed that I should have even + <i>seemed</i> to do wrong in my speech about the letters. It must have been + wrong, if it seemed so to you, I fancy now. Only I really did no more + mean to try your letters ... mine ... such as they are to me now, by + the common critical measure, than the shepherds praised the pure tenor + of the angels who sang 'Peace upon earth' to them. It was enough that + they knew it for angels' singing. So do <i>you</i> forgive me, beloved, and + put away from you the thought that I have let in between us any + miserable stuff 'de métier,' which I hate as you hate. And I will not + say any more about it, not to run into more imprudences of mischief. +</p> +<p> + On the other hand I warn you against saying again what you began to + say yesterday and stopped. Do not try it again. What may be quite good + sense from me, is from <i>you</i> very much the reverse, and pray observe + that difference. Or did you think that I was making my own road clear + in the the thing I said about—'jilts'? No, you did not. Yet I am + ready to repeat of myself as of others, that if I ceased to love you, + I certainly would act out the whole consequence—but <i>that</i> is an + impossible 'if' to my nature, supposing the conditions of it otherwise + to be probable. I never loved anyone much and ceased to love that + person. Ask every friend of mine, if I am given to change even in + friendship! <i>And to you...!</i> Ah, but you never think of such a thing + seriously—and you are conscious that you did not say it very sagely. + You and I are in different positions. Now let me tell you an apologue + in exchange for your Wednesday's stories which I liked so, and mine + perhaps may make you 'a little wiser'—who knows? +</p> +<p> + It befell that there stood in hall a bold baron, and out he spake to + one of his serfs ... 'Come thou; and take this baton of my baronie, + and give me instead thereof that sprig of hawthorn thou holdest in + thine hand.' Now the hawthorn-bough was no larger a thing than might + be carried by a wood-pigeon to the nest, when she flieth low, and the + baronial baton was covered with fine gold, and the serf, turning it + in his hands, marvelled greatly. +</p> +<p> + And he answered and said, 'Let not my lord be in haste, nor jest with + his servant. Is it verily his will that I should keep his golden + baton? Let him speak again—lest it repent him of his gift.' +</p> +<p> + And the baron spake again that it was his will. 'And I'—he said once + again—'shall it be lawful for me to keep this sprig of hawthorn, and + will it not repent thee of thy gift?' +</p> +<p> + Then all the servants who stood in hall, laughed, and the serf's hands + trembled till they dropped the baton into the rushes, knowing that his + lord did but jest.... +</p> +<p> + Which mine did not. Only, <i>de te fabula narratur</i> up to a point. +</p> +<p> + And I have your letter. 'What did I expect?' Why I expected just + <i>that</i>, a letter in turn. Also I am graciously pleased (yes, and very + much pleased!) to '<i>let</i> you write to-morrow.' How you spoil me with + goodness, which makes one 'insolent' as I was saying, now and then. +</p> +<p> + The worst is, that I write 'too kind' letters—I!—and what does that + criticism mean, pray? It reminds me, at least, of ... now I will tell + you what it reminds me of. +</p> +<p> + A few days ago Henrietta said to me that she was quite uncomfortable. + She had written to somebody a not kind enough letter, she thought, and + it might be taken ill. 'Are <i>you</i> ever uncomfortable, Ba, after you + have sent letters to the post?' she asked me. +</p> +<p> + 'Yes,' I said, 'sometimes, but from a reason just the very reverse of + your reason, <i>my</i> letters, when they get into the post, seem too + kind,—rather.' And my sisters laughed ... laughed. +</p> +<p> + But if <i>you</i> think so beside, I must seriously set to work, you see, + to correct that flagrant fault, and shall do better in time <i>dis + faventibus</i>, though it will be difficult. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon's dinner is a riddle which I cannot read. <i>You</i> are + invited to meet Miss Thomson and Mr. Bayley and '<i>no one else</i>.' + George is invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter and '<i>no one + else</i>'—just those words. The '<i>absolu</i>' (do you remember Balzac's + beautiful story?) is just <i>you</i> and 'no one else,' the other elements + being mere uncertainties, shifting while one looks for them. +</p> +<p> + Am I not writing nonsense to-night? I am not 'too <i>wise</i>' in any case, + which is some comfort. It puts one in spirits to hear of your being + 'well,' ever and ever dearest. Keep so for <i>me</i>. May God bless you + hour by hour. In every one of mine I am your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + For Miss Mitford ... +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">But people are not angels quite ... +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">and she sees the whole world in stripes of black and white, it is her + way. I feel very affectionately towards her, love her sincerely. She + is affectionate to <i>me</i> beyond measure. Still, always I feel that if I + were to vex her, the lower deep below the lowest deep would not be low + enough for <i>me</i>. I always feel <i>that</i>. She would advertise me directly + for a wretch proper. +</p> +<p> + Then, for all I said about never changing, I have ice enough over me + just now to hold the sparrows!—in respect to a great crowd of people, + and she is among them—for reasons—for reasons. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 23, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + So all was altered, my love—and, instead of Miss T. and the other + friend, I had your brother and Procter—to my great pleasure. After, I + went to that place, and soon got away, and am very well this morning + in the sunshine; which I feel with you, do I not? Yesterday after + dinner we spoke of Mrs. Jameson, and, as my wont is—(Here your letter + reaches me—let me finish this sentence now I have finished kissing + you, dearest beyond all dearness—My own heart's Ba!)—oh, as I am + used, I left the talking to go on by itself, with the thought busied + elsewhere, till at last my own voice startled me for I heard my tongue + utter 'Miss Barrett ... that is, Mrs. Jameson says' ... or 'does ... + or does not.' I forget which! And if anybody noticed the <i>gaucherie</i> + it must have been just your brother! +</p> +<p> + Now to these letters! I do solemnly, unaffectedly wonder how you can + put so much pure felicity into an envelope so as that I shall get it + as from the fount head. This to-day, those yesterday—there is, I see, + and know, thus much goodness in line after line, goodness to be + scientifically appreciated, <i>proved there</i>—but over and above, is it + in the writing, the dots and traces, the seal, the paper—here does + the subtle charm lie beyond all rational accounting for? The other day + I stumbled on a quotation from J. Baptista Porta—wherein he avers + that any musical instrument made out of wood possessed of medicinal + properties retains, being put to use, such virtues undiminished,—and + that, for instance, a sick man to whom you should pipe on a pipe of + elder-tree would so receive all the advantage derivable from a + decoction of its berries. From whence, by a parity of reasoning, I may + discover, I think, that the very ink and paper were—ah, what were + they? Curious thinking won't do for me and the wise head which is + mine, so I will lie and rest in my ignorance of content and understand + that without any magic at all you simply wish to make one + person—which of your free goodness proves to be your R.B.—to make me + supremely happy, and that you have your wish—you <i>do</i> bless me! More + and more, for the old treasure is piled undiminished and still the new + comes glittering in. Dear, dear heart of my heart, life of my life, + <i>will this last</i>, let <i>me</i> begin to ask? Can it be meant I shall live + this to the end? Then, dearest, care also for the life beyond, and put + in my mind how to testify here that I have felt, if I could not + deserve that a gift beyond all gifts! I hope to work hard, to prove I + do feel, as I say—it would be terrible to accomplish nothing now. +</p> +<p> + With which conviction—renewed conviction time by time, of your + extravagance of kindness to me unworthy,—will it seem + characteristically consistent when I pray you not to begin frightening + me, all the same, with threats of writing <i>less</i> kindly? That must not + be, love, for <i>your</i> sake now—if you had not thrown open those + windows of heaven I should have no more imagined than that Syrian lord + on whom the King leaned 'how such things might be'—but, once their + influence showered, I should know, too soon and easily, if they shut + up again! You have committed your dear, dearest self to that course of + blessing, and blessing on, on, for ever—so let all be as it is, pray, + <i>pray</i>! +</p> +<p> + No—not <i>all</i>. No more, ever, of that strange + suspicion—'insolent'—oh, what a word!—nor suppose I shall + particularly wonder at its being fancied applicable to <i>that</i>, of all + other passages of your letter! It is quite as reasonable to suspect + the existence of such a quality <i>there</i> as elsewhere: how <i>can</i> such a + thing, <i>could</i> such a thing come from you to me? But, dear Ba, <i>do</i> + you know me better! <i>Do</i> feel that I know you, I am bold to believe, + and that if you were to run at me with a pointed spear I should be + sure it was a golden sanative, Machaon's touch, for my entire good, + that I was opening my heart to receive! As for words, written or + spoken—I, who sin forty times in a day by light words, and untrue to + the thought, I am certainly not used to be easily offended by other + peoples' words, people in the world. But <i>your</i> words! And about the + 'mission'; if it had not been a thing to jest at, I should not have + begun, as I did—as you felt I did. I know now, what I only suspected + then, and will tell you all the matter on Monday if you care to hear. + The 'humanity' however, would have been unquestionable if I had chosen + to exercise it towards the poor weak incapable creature that wants + <i>somebody</i>, and urgently, I can well believe. +</p> +<p> + As for your apologue, it is naught—as you felt, and so broke off—for + the baron knew well enough it was a spray of the magical tree which + once planted in his domain would shoot up, and out, and all round, and + be glorious with leaves and musical with birds' nests, and a fairy + safeguard and blessing thenceforward and for ever, when the foolish + baton had been broken into ounces of gold, even if gold it <i>were</i>, and + spent and vanished: for, he said, such gold lies in the highway, men + pick it up, more of it or less; but this one slip of the flowering + tree is all of it on this side Paradise. Whereon he laid it to his + heart and was happy—in spite of his disastrous chase the night + before, when so far from catching an unicorn, he saw not even a + respectable prize-heifer, worth the oil-cake and rape-seed it had + doubtless cost to rear her—'insolence!' +</p> +<p> + I found no opportunity of speaking to Mr. K. about Monday, but nothing + was said of last Wednesday, and he must know I did not go yesterday. + So, Monday is laughing in sunshine surely! Bless you, my sweetest. I + love you with my whole heart; ever shall love you. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 24, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest, it is only when you go away, when you are quite gone, + out of the house and the street, that I get up and think properly, and + with the right gratitude of your flowers. Such beautiful flowers you + brought me this time too! looking like summer itself, and smelling! + Doing the 'honour due' to the flowers, makes your presence a little + longer with me, the sun shines back over the hill just by that time, + and then drops, till the next letter. +</p> +<p> + If I had had the letter on Saturday as ought to have been, no, I could + <i>not</i> have answered it so that you should have my answer on + Sunday—no, I should still have had to write first. +</p> +<p> + Now you understand that I do not object to the writing first, but only + to the hearing second. I would rather write than not—I! But to be + written to is the chief gladness of course; and with all you say of + liking to have my letters (which I like to hear quite enough indeed) + you cannot pretend to think that <i>yours</i> are not more to <i>me</i>, most to + <i>me</i>! Ask my guardian-angel and hear what he says! Yours will look + another way for shame of measuring joys with him! Because as I have + said before, and as he says now, you are all to me, all the light, all + the life; I am living for you now. And before I knew you, what was I + and where? What was the world to me, do you think? and the meaning of + life? And now, when you come and go, and write and do not write, all + the hours are chequered accordingly in so many squares of white and + black, as if for playing at fox and goose ... only there is no fox, + and I will not agree to be goose for one ... <i>that</i> is <i>you</i> perhaps, + for being 'too easily' satisfied. +</p> +<p> + So my claim is that you are more to me than I can be to you at any + rate. Mr. Fox said on Sunday that I was a 'religious hermit' who wrote + 'poems which ought to be read in a Gothic alcove'; and religious + hermits, when they care to see visions, do it better, they all say, + through fasting and flagellation and seclusion in dark places. St. + Theresa, for instance, saw a clearer glory by such means, than your + Sir Moses Montefiore through his hundred-guinea telescope. Think then, + how every shadow of my life has helped to throw out into brighter, + fuller significance, the light which comes to me from you ... think + how it is the one light, seen without distractions. +</p> +<p> + <i>I</i> was thinking the other day that certainly and after all (or rather + before all) I had loved you all my life unawares, that is, the idea of + you. Women begin for the most part, (if ever so very little given to + reverie) by meaning, in an aside to themselves, to love such and such + an ideal, seen sometimes in a dream and sometimes in a book, and + forswearing their ancient faith as the years creep on. I say a book, + because I remember a friend of mine who looked everywhere for the + original of Mr. Ward's 'Tremaine,' because nothing would do for <i>her</i>, + she insisted, except just <i>that</i> excess of so-called refinement, with + the book-knowledge and the conventional manners, (<i>loue qui peut</i>, + Tremaine), and ended by marrying a lieutenant in the Navy who could + not spell. Such things happen every day, and cannot be otherwise, say + the wise:—and <i>this</i> being otherwise with <i>me</i> is miraculous + compensation for the trials of many years, though such abundant, + overabundant compensation, that I cannot help fearing it is too much, + as I know that you are too good and too high for me, and that by the + degree in which I am raised up you are let down, for us two to find a + level to meet on. One's ideal must be above one, as a matter of + course, you know. It is as far as one can reach with one's eyes + (soul-eyes), not reach to touch. And here is mine ... shall I tell + you? ... even to the visible outward sign of the black hair and the + complexion (why you might ask my sisters!) yet I would not tell you, + if I could not tell you afterwards that, if it had been red hair + quite, it had been the same thing, only I prove the coincidence out + fully and make you smile half. +</p> +<p> + Yet indeed I did not fancy that I was to love <i>you</i> when you came to + see me—no indeed ... any more than I did your caring on your side. My + ambition when we began our correspondence, was simply that you should + forget I was a woman (being weary and <i>blasée</i> of the empty written + gallantries, of which I have had my share and all the more perhaps + from my peculiar position which made them so without consequence), + that you should forget <i>that</i> and let us be friends, and consent to + teach me what you knew better than I, in art and human nature, and + give me your sympathy in the meanwhile. I am a great hero-worshipper + and had admired your poetry for years, and to feel that you liked to + write to me and be written to was a pleasure and a pride, as I used + to tell you I am sure, and then your letters were not like other + letters, as I must not tell you again. Also you <i>influenced</i> me, in a + way in which no one else did. For instance, by two or three half words + you made me see you, and other people had delivered orations on the + same subject quite without effect. I surprised everybody in this house + by consenting to see you. Then, when you came, you never went away. I + mean I had a sense of your presence constantly. Yes ... and to prove + how free that feeling was from the remotest presentiment of what has + occurred, I said to Papa in my unconsciousness the next morning ... + 'it is most extraordinary how the idea of Mr. Browning does beset + me—I suppose it is not being used to see strangers, in some + degree—but it haunts me ... it is a persecution.' On which he smiled + and said that 'it was not grateful to my friend to use such a word.' + When the letter came.... +</p> +<p> + Do you know that all that time I was frightened of you? frightened in + this way. I felt as if you had a power over me and meant to use it, + and that I could not breathe or speak very differently from what you + chose to make me. As to my thoughts, I had it in my head somehow that + you read <i>them</i> as you read the newspaper—examined them, and fastened + them down writhing under your long entomological pins—ah, do you + remember the entomology of it all? +</p> +<p> + But the power was used upon <i>me</i>—and I never doubted that you had + mistaken your own mind, the strongest of us having some exceptional + weakness. Turning the wonder round in all lights, I came to what you + admitted yesterday ... yes, I saw <i>that</i> very early ... that you had + come here with the intention of trying to love whomever you should + find, ... and also that what I had said about exaggerating the amount + of what I could be to you, had just operated in making you more + determined to justify your own presentiment in the face of mine. + Well—and if that last clause was true a little, too ... why should I + be sorry now ... and why should you have fancied for a moment, that + the first could make me sorry. At first and when I did not believe + that you really loved me, when I thought you deceived yourself, + <i>then</i>, it was different. But now ... now ... when I see and believe + your attachment for me, do you think that any cause in the world + (except what diminished it) could render it less a source of joy to + me? I mean as far as I myself am considered. Now if you ever fancy + that I am <i>vain</i> of your love for me, you will be unjust, remember. If + it were less dear, and less above me, I might be vain perhaps. But I + may say <i>before</i> God and you, that of all the events of my life, + inclusive of its afflictions, nothing has humbled me so much as your + love. Right or wrong it may be, but true it <i>is</i>, and I tell you. Your + love has been to me like God's own love, which makes the receivers of + it kneelers. +</p> +<p> + Why all this should be written, I do not know—but you set me thinking + yesterday in that backward line, which I lean back to very often, and + for once, as you made me write directly, why I wrote, as my thoughts + went, that way. +</p> +<p> + Say how you are, beloved—and do not brood over that 'Soul's Tragedy,' + which I wish I had here with 'Luria,' because, so, you should not see + it for a month at least. And take exercise and keep well—and remember + how many letters I must have before Saturday. May God bless you. Do + you want to hear me say +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I cannot love you less...? +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"><i>That</i> is a doubtful phrase. And +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I cannot love you more +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">is doubtful too, for reasons I could give. More or less, I really love + you, but it does not sound right, even <i>so</i>, does it? I know what it + ought to be, and will put it into the 'seal' and the 'paper' with the + ineffable other things. +</p> +<p> + Dearest, do not go to St. Petersburg. Do not think of going, for fear + it should come true and you should go, and while you were helping the + Jews and teaching Nicholas, what (in that case) would become of your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 24, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah, sweetest, in spite of our agreement, here is the note that sought + not to go, but must—because, if there is no speaking of Mrs. Jamesons + and such like without bringing in your dear name (not <i>dearest</i> name, + my Ba!) what is the good of not writing it down, now, when I, though + possessed with the love of it no more than usual, yet <i>may</i> speak, and + to a hearer? And I have to thank you with all my heart for the good + news of the increasing strength and less need for the opium—how I do + thank you, my dearest—and desire to thank God through whose goodness + it all is! This I could not but say now, to-morrow I will write at + length, having been working a little this morning, with whatever + effect. So now I will go out and see your elm-trees and gate, and + think the thoughts over again, and coming home I shall perhaps find a + letter. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Dearest, dearest—my perfect blessing you are!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">May God continue his care for us. R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, February 25, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Once you were pleased to say, my own Ba, that 'I made you do as I + would.' I am quite sure, you make me <i>speak</i> as you would, and not at + all as I mean—and for one instance, I never surely spoke anything + half so untrue as that 'I came with the intention of loving whomever I + should find'—No! wreathed shells and hollows in ruins, and roofs of + caves may transform a voice wonderfully, make more of it or less, or + so change it as to almost alter, but turn a 'no' into a 'yes' can no + echo (except the Irish one), and I said 'no' to such a charge, and + still say 'no.' I <i>did</i> have a presentiment—and though it is hardly + possible for me to look back on it now without lending it the true + colours given to it by the event, yet I <i>can</i> put them aside, if I + please, and remember that I not merely hoped it would not be so (<i>not</i> + that the effect I expected to be produced would be <i>less</i> than in + anticipation, certainly I did not hope <i>that</i>, but that it would range + itself with the old feelings of simple reverence and sympathy and + friendship, that I should love you as much as I supposed I <i>could</i> + love, and no more) but in the confidence that nothing could occur to + divert me from my intended way of life, I made—went on making + arrangements to return to Italy. You know—did I not tell you—I + wished to see you before I returned? And I had heard of you just so + much as seemed to make it impossible such a relation could ever exist. + I know very well, if you choose to refer to my letters you may easily + bring them to bear a sense in parts, more agreeable to your own theory + than to mine, the true one—but that was instinct, + Providence—anything rather than foresight. Now I will convince you! + yourself have noticed the difference between the <i>letters</i> and the + <i>writer</i>; the greater 'distance of the latter from you,' why was that? + Why, if not because the conduct <i>began</i> with <i>him</i>, with one who had + now seen you—was no continuation of the conduct, as influenced by the + feeling, of the letters—else, they, if <i>near</i>, should have enabled + him, if but in the natural course of time and with increase of + familiarity, to become <i>nearer</i>—but it was not so! The letters began + by loving you after their way—but what a world-wide difference + between <i>that</i> love and the true, the love from seeing and hearing and + feeling, since you make me resolve, what now lies blended so + harmoniously, into its component parts. Oh, I know what is old from + what is new, and how chrystals may surround and glorify other vessels + meant for ordinary service than Lord N's! But I <i>don't</i> know that + handling may not snap them off, some of the more delicate ones; and if + you let me, love, I will not again, ever again, consider how it came + and whence, and when, so curiously, so pryingly, but believe that it + was always so, and that it all came at once, all the same; the more + unlikelinesses the better, for they set off the better the truth of + truths that here, ('how begot? how nourished?')—here is the whole + wondrous Ba filling my whole heart and soul; and over-filling it, + because she is in all the world, too, where I look, where I fancy. At + the same time, because all is so wondrous and so sweet, do you think + that it would be <i>so</i> difficult for me to analyse it, and give causes + to the effects in sufficiently numerous instances, even to 'justify my + presentiment?' Ah, dear, dearest Ba, I could, could indeed, could + account for all, or enough! But you are unconscious, I do believe, of + your power, and the knowledge of it would be no added grace, perhaps! + So let us go on—taking a lesson out of the world's book in a + different sense. You shall think I love you for—(tell me, you must, + what for) while in my secret heart I know what my 'mission of + humanity' means, and what telescopic and microscopic views it procures + me. Enough—Wait, one word about the 'too kind letters'—could not the + same Montefiore understand that though he deserved not one of his + thousand guineas, yet that he is in disgrace if they bate him of his + next gift by merely <i>ten</i>? It <i>is</i> all too kind—but I shall feel the + diminishing of the kindness, be very sure! Of that there is, however, + not too alarming a sign in this dearest, because last of all—dearest + letter of all—till the next! I looked yesterday over the 'Tragedy,' + and think it will do after all. I will bring one part at least next + time, and 'Luria' take away, if you let me, so all will be off my + mind, and April and May be the welcomer? Don't think I am going to + take any extraordinary pains. There are some things in the 'Tragedy' I + should like to preserve and print now, leaving the future to spring + as it likes, in any direction, and these half-dead, half-alive works + fetter it, if left behind. +</p> +<p> + Yet one thing will fetter it worse, only one thing—if <i>you</i>, in any + respect, stay behind? You that in all else help me and will help me, + beyond words—beyond dreams—if, because I find you, your own works + <i>stop</i>—'then comes the Selah and the voice is hushed.' Oh, no, no, + dearest, <i>so</i> would the help cease to be help—the joy to be joy, Ba + herself to be <i>quite</i> Ba, and my own Siren singing song for song. Dear + love, will that be kind, and right, and like the rest? Write and + promise that all shall be resumed, the romance-poem chiefly, and I + will try and feel more yours than ever now. Am I not with you in the + world, proud of you—and <i>vain</i>, too, very likely, which is all the + sweeter if it is a sin as you teach me. Indeed dearest, I have set my + heart on your fulfilling your mission—my heart is on it! Bless you, + my Ba— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your R.B. +</p> +<p> + I am so well as to have resumed the shower-bath (this morning)—and I + walk, especially near the elms and stile—and mean to walk, and be + very well—and you, dearest? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 26, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I confess that while I was writing those words I had a thought that + they were not quite yours as you said them. Still it comes to + something in their likeness, but we will not talk of it and break off + the chrystals—they <i>are</i> so brittle, then? do you know <i>that</i> by an + 'instinct.' But I agree that it is best not to talk—I 'gave it up' as + a riddle long ago. Let there be 'analysis' even, and it will not be + solution. I have my own thoughts of course, and you have yours, and + the worst is that a third person looking down on us from some + snow-capped height, and free from personal influences, would have + <i>his</i> thoughts too, and <i>he</i> would think that if you had been + reasonable as usual you would have gone to Italy. I have by heart (or + by head at least) what the third person would think. The third person + thundered to me in an abstraction for ever so long, and at intervals I + hear him still, only you shall not to-day, because he talks 'damnable + iterations' and teazes you. Nay, the first person is teazing you now + perhaps, without going any further, and yet I must go a little + further, just to say (after accepting all possible unlikelinesses and + miracles, because everything was miraculous and impossible) that it + was agreed between us long since that you did not love me for + anything—your having no reason for it is the only way of your not + seeming unreasonable. Also <i>for my own sake</i>. I like it to be so—I + cannot have peace with the least change from it. Dearest, take the + baron's hawthorn bough which, in spite of his fine dream of it is dead + since the other day, and so much the worse than when I despised it + last—take that dead stick and push it upright into the sand as the + tide rises, and the whole blue sea draws up its glittering breadth and + length towards and around it. But what then? What does <i>that prove</i>? + ... as the philosopher said of the poem. So we ought not to talk of + such things; and we get warned off even in the accidental + illustrations taken up to light us. Still, the stick certainly did not + draw the sea. +</p> +<p> + Dearest and best you were yesterday, to write me the little note! You + are better than the imaginations of my heart, and <i>they</i>, as far as + they relate to you (not further) are <i>not</i> desperately wicked, I + think. I always expect the kindest things from you, and you always are + doing some kindness beyond what is expected, and this is a miracle + too, like the rest, now isn't it? When the knock came last night, I + knew it was your letter, and not another's. Just another little leaf + of my Koran! How I thank you ... thank you! If I write too kind + letters, as you say, why they may be too kind for me to send, but not + for you to receive; and I suppose I think more of you than of me, + which accounts for my writing them, accounts and justifies. And <i>that</i> + is my reflection not now for the first time. For we break rules very + often—as that exegetical third person might expound to you clearly + out of the ninety-sixth volume of the 'Code of Conventions,' only you + are not like another, nor have you been to me like another—you began + with most improvident and (will you let me say?) <i>unmasculine</i> + generosity, and Queen Victoria does not sit upon a mat after the + fashion of Queen Pomare, nor should. +</p> +<p> + But ... but ... you know very fully that you are breaking faith in the + matter of the 'Tragedy' and 'Luria'—you promised to rest—and <i>you + rest for three days</i>. Is it <i>so</i> that people get well? or keep well? + Indeed I do not think I shall let you have 'Luria.' Ah—be careful, I + do beseech you—be careful. There is time for a pause, and the works + will profit by it themselves. And <i>you</i>! And I ... if you are ill!— +</p> +<p> + For the rest I will let you walk in my field, and see my elms as much + as you please ... though I hear about the shower bath with a little + suspicion. Why, if it did you harm before, should it not again? and + why should you use it, if it threatens harm? Now tell me if it hasn't + made you rather unwell since the new trial!—tell me, dear, dearest. +</p> +<p> + As for myself, I believe that you set about exhorting me to be busy, + just that I might not reproach <i>you</i> for the over-business. Confess + that <i>that</i> was the only meaning of the exhortation. But no, you are + quite serious, you say. You even threaten me in a sort of underground + murmur, which sounds like a nascent earthquake; and if I do not write + so much a day directly, your stipendiary magistrateship will take away + my license to be loved ... I am not to be Ba to you any longer ... you + say! And is <i>this</i> right? now I ask you. Ever so many chrystals fell + off by that stroke of the baton, I do assure you. Only you did not + mean quite what you said so too articulately, and you will unsay it, + if you please, and unthink it near the elms. +</p> +<p> + As for the writing, I will write ... I have written ... I am writing. + You do not fancy that I have given up writing?—No. Only I have + certainly been more loitering and distracted than usual in what I have + done, which is not my fault—nor yours directly—and I feel an + indisposition to setting about the romance, the hand of the soul + shakes. I am too happy and not calm enough, I suppose, to have the + right inclination. Well—it will come. But all in blots and fragments + there are verses enough, to fill a volume done in the last year. +</p> +<p> + And if there were not ... if there were none ... I hold that I should + be Ba, and also <i>your</i> Ba ... which is 'insolence' ... will you say? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, February 26, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + As for the 'third person,' my sweet Ba, he was a wise speaker from the + beginning; and in our case he will say, turning to me—'the late + Robert Hall—when a friend admired that one with so high an estimate + of the value of intellectuality in woman should yet marry some kind of + cook-maid animal, as did the said Robert; wisely answered, "you can't + kiss Mind"! May <i>you</i> not discover eventually,' (this is to me) 'that + mere intellectual endowments—though incontestably of the loftiest + character—mere Mind, though that Mind be Miss B's—cannot be + <i>kissed</i>—nor, repent too late the absence of those humbler qualities, + those softer affections which, like flowerets at the mountain's foot, + if not so proudly soaring as, as, as!...' and so on, till one of us + died, with laughing or being laughed at! So judges the third person! + and if, to help him, we let him into your room at Wimpole Street, + suffered him to see with Flush's eyes, he would say with just as wise + an air 'True, mere personal affections may be warm enough, but does it + augur well for the durability of an attachment that it should be + <i>wholly, exclusively</i> based on such perishable attractions as the + sweetness of a mouth, the beauty of an eye? I could wish, rather, to + know that there was something of less transitory nature co-existent + with this—some congeniality of Mental pursuit, some—' Would he not + say that? But I can't do his platitudes justice because here is our + post going out and I have been all the morning walking in the perfect + joy of my heart, with your letter, and under its blessing—dearest, + dearest Ba—let me say more to-morrow—only this now, that you—ah, + what are you not to me! My dearest love, bless you—till to-morrow + when I will strengthen the prayer; (no, <i>lengthen</i> it!) +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own. +</p> +<p> + 'Hawthorn'<a href="#note-25"><b>25</b></a>—to show how Spring gets on! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, February 27, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + If all third persons were as foolish as this third person of yours, + ever dearest, first and second persons might follow their own devices + without losing much in the way of good counsel. But you are unlucky in + your third person as far as the wits go, he talks a great deal of + nonsense, and Flush, who is sensible, will have nothing to do with + him, he says, any more than you will with Sir Moses:—he is quite a + third person <i>singular</i> for the nonsense he talks! +</p> +<p> + So, instead of him, you shall hear what I have been doing to-day. The + sun, which drew out you and the hawthorns, persuaded me that it was + warm enough to go down-stairs—and I put on my cloak as if I were + going into the snow, and went into the drawing-room and took + Henrietta by surprise as she sate at the piano singing. Well, I meant + to stay half an hour and come back again, for I am upon 'Tinkler's + ground' in the drawing-room and liable to whole droves of morning + visitors—and Henrietta kept me, kept me, because she wanted me, + besought me, to stay and see the great sight of Capt. Surtees + Cook—<i>plus</i> his regimentals—fresh from the royal presence at St. + James's, and I never saw him in my life, though he is a sort of + cousin. So, though I hated it as you may think, ... not liking to be + unkind to my sister, I stayed and stayed one ten minutes after + another, till it seemed plain that he wasn't coming at all (as I told + her) and that Victoria had kept him to dinner, enchanted with the + regimentals. And half laughing and half quarrelling, still she kept me + by force, until a knock came most significantly ... and '<i>There</i> is + Surtees' said she ... 'now you must and shall stay! So foolish,' (I + had my hand on the door-handle to go out) 'he, your own cousin too! + who always calls you Ba, except before Papa.' Which might have + encouraged me perhaps, but I can't be sure of it, as the very next + moment apprized us both that no less a person than Mrs. Jameson was + standing out in the passage. The whole 36th. regiment could scarcely + have been more astounding to me. As to staying to see her in that + room, with the prospect of the military descent in combination, I + couldn't have done it for the world! so I made Henrietta, who had + drawn me into the scrape, take her up-stairs, and followed myself in a + minute or two—and the corollary of this interesting history is, that + being able to talk at all after all that 'fuss,' and after walking + 'up-stairs and down-stairs' like the ancestor of your spider, proves + my gigantic strength—now doesn't it? +</p> +<p> + For the rest, 'here be proofs' that the first person can be as foolish + as any third person in the world. What do you think? +</p> +<p> + And Mrs. Jameson was kind beyond speaking of, and talked of taking me + to Italy. What do you say? It is somewhere about the fifth or sixth + proposition of the sort which has come to me. I shall be embarrassed, + it seems to me, by the multitude of escorts to Italy. But the + kindness, one cannot laugh at so much kindness. +</p> +<p> + I wanted to hear her speak of you, and was afraid. I <i>could not</i> name + you. Yet I <i>did</i> want to hear the last 'Bell' praised. +</p> +<p> + She goes to Ireland for two months soon, but prints a book first, a + collection of essays. I have not seen Mr. Kenyon, with whom she dined + yesterday. The Macreadys were to be there, and he told me a week ago + that he very nearly committed himself in a 'social mistake' by + inviting you to meet them. +</p> +<p> + Ah my hawthorn spray! Do you know, I caught myself pitying it for + being gathered, with that green promise of leaves on it! There is room + too on it for the feet of a bird! Still I shall keep it longer than it + would have stayed in the hedge, <i>that</i> is certain! +</p> +<p> + The first you ever gave me was a yellow rose sent in a letter, and + shall I tell you what <i>that</i> means—the yellow rose? '<i>Infidelity</i>,' + says the dictionary of flowers. You see what an omen, ... to begin + with! +</p> +<p> + Also you see that I am not tired with the great avatar to-day—the + 'fell swoop' rather—mine, into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Jameson's + on <i>me</i>. +</p> +<p> + And I shall hear to-morrow again, really? I '<i>let</i>' you. And you are + best, kindest, dearest, every day. Did I ever tell you that you made + me do what you choose? I fancied that I only <i>thought</i> so. May God + bless you. I am your own. +</p> +<p> + Shall I have the 'Soul's Tragedy' on Saturday?—any of it? But <i>do not + work</i>—I beseech you to take care. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, February 27, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + To be sure my 'first person' was nonsensical, and, in that respect + made speak properly, I hope, only he was cut short in the middle of + his performance by the exigencies of the post. So, never mind what + such persons say, my sweetest, because they know nothing at all—<i>quod + erat demonstrandum</i>. But you, love, you speak roses, and + hawthorn-blossoms when you tell me of the cloak put on, and the + descent, and the entry, and staying and delaying. I will have had a + hand in all that; I know what I wished all the morning, and now this + much came true! But you should have seen the regimentals, if I could + have so contrived it, for I confess to a Chinese love for bright + red—the very names 'vermilion' 'scarlet' warm me, yet in this cold + climate nobody wears red to comfort one's eye save soldiers and fox + hunters, and old women fresh from a Parish Christmas Distribution of + cloaks. To dress in floating loose crimson silk, I almost understand + being a Cardinal! Do you know anything of Nat Lee's Tragedies? In one + of them a man angry with a Cardinal cries— +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Stand back, and let me mow this poppy down,<br> +This rank red weed that spoils the Churches' corn. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">Is not that good? and presently, when the same worthy is poisoned + (that is the Cardinal)—they bid him—'now, Cardinal, lie down and + roar!' +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Think of thy scarlet sins! +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Of the justice of all which, you will judge with no Mrs. Jameson for + guide when we see the Sistina together, I trust! By the way, yesterday + I went to Dulwich to see some pictures, by old Teniers, Murillo, + Gainsborough, Raphael!—then twenty names about, and last but one, as + if just thought of, 'Correggio.' The whole collection, including 'a + <i>divine</i> picture by Murillo,' and Titian's Daughter (hitherto supposed + to be in the Louvre)—the whole I would, I think, have cheerfully + given a pound or two for the privilege of not possessing—so execrable + as sign-paintings even! 'Are there worse poets in their way than + painters?' Yet the melancholy business is here—that the bad poet goes + out of his way, writes his verses in the language he learned in order + to do a hundred other things with it, all of which he can go on and do + afterwards—but the painter has spent the best of his life in learning + even how to produce such monstrosities as these, and to what other + good do his acquisitions go? This short minute of life our one chance, + an eternity on either side! and a man does not walk whistling and + ruddy by the side of hawthorn hedges in spring, but shuts himself up + and conies out after a dozen years with 'Titian's Daughter' and, + there, gone is his life, let somebody else try! +</p> +<p> + I have tried—my trial is made too! +</p> +<p> + To-morrow you shall tell me, dearest, that Mrs. Jameson wondered to + see you so well—did she not wonder? Ah, to-morrow! There is a lesson + from all this writing and mistaking and correcting and being + corrected; and what, but that a word goes safely only from lip to lip, + dearest? See how the cup slipped from the lip and snapped the + chrystals, you say! But the writing is but for a time—'a time and + times and half a time!'—would I knew when the prophetic weeks end! + Still, one day, as I say, no more writing, (and great scandalization + of the third person, peeping through the fringes of Flush's ears!) + meanwhile, I wonder whether if I meet Mrs. Jameson I may practise + diplomacy and say carelessly 'I should be glad to know what Miss B. is + like—' No, that I must not do, something tells me, 'for reasons, for + reasons'— +</p> +<p> + I do not know—you may perhaps have to wait a little longer for my + 'divine Murillo' of a Tragedy. My sister is copying it as I give the + pages, but—in fact my wise head does ache a little—it is + inconceivable! As if it took a great storm to topple over some stone, + and once the stone pushed from its right place, any bird's foot, which + would hardly bend the hawthorn spray, may set it trembling! The aching + begins with reading the presentation-list at the Drawing-room quite + naturally, and with no shame at all! But it is gentle, well-behaved + aching now, so I <i>do</i> care, as you bid me, Ba, my Ba, whom I call Ba + to my heart but could not, I really believe, call so before another, + even your sister, if—if— +</p> +<p> + But Ba, I call you boldly here, and I dare kiss your dear, dear eyes, + till to-morrow—Bless you, my own. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 2, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You never could think that I meant any insinuation against you by a + word of what was said yesterday, or that I sought or am likely to seek + a 'security'! do you know it was not right of you to use such an + expression—indeed no. You were angry with me for just one minute, or + you would not have used it—and why? Now what did I say that was wrong + or unkind even by construction? If I did say anything, it was three + times wrong, and unjust as well as unkind, and wronged my own heart + and consciousness of all that you are to me, more than it could <i>you</i>. + But you began speaking of yourself just as a woman might speak under + the same circumstances (you remember what you said), and then <i>I</i>, + remembering that all the men in the world would laugh such an idea to + scorn, said something to that effect, you <i>know</i>. I once was in + company with a man, however, who valued himself very much on his + constancy to a woman who was so deeply affected by it that she became + his wife at last ... and the whole neighbourhood came out to stare at + him on that ground as a sort of monster. And can you guess what the + constancy meant? Seven years before, he loved that woman, he said, and + she repulsed him. 'And in the meantime, <i>how many</i>?' I had the + impertinence to ask a female friend who told me the tale. 'Why,' she + answered with the utmost simplicity, 'I understand that Miss A. and + Miss B. and Mrs. C. would not listen to him, but he took Miss D.'s + rejection most to heart.' That was the head and front of his + 'constancy' to Miss E., who had been loved, she boasted, for seven + years ... that is, once at the beginning and once at the end. It was + just a coincidence of the 'premier pas' and the 'pis aller.' +</p> +<p> + Beloved, I could not mean this for you; you are not made of such + stuff, as we both know. +</p> +<p> + And for myself, it was my compromise with my own scruples, that you + should not be 'chained' to me, not in the merest metaphor, that you + should not seem to be bound, in honour or otherwise, so that if you + stayed with me it should be your free choice to stay, not the + <i>consequence</i> of a choice so many months before. That was my + compromise with my scruples, and not my doubt of your affection—and + least of all, was it an intention of trifling with you sooner or later + that made me wish to suspend all <i>decisions</i> as long as possible. I + have decided (for me) to let it be as you shall please—now I told you + that before. Either we will live on as we are, until an obstacle + arises,—for indeed I do not look for a 'security' where you suppose, + and the very appearance of it <i>there</i>, is what most rebuts me—or I + will be yours in the obvious way, to go out of England the next + half-hour if possible. As to the steps to be taken (or not taken) + before the last step, we must think of those. The worst is that the + only question is about a <i>form</i>. Virtually the evil is the same all + round, whatever we do. Dearest, it was plain to see yesterday evening + when he came into this room for a moment at seven o'clock, before + going to his own to dress for dinner ... plain to see, that he was not + altogether pleased at finding you here in the morning. There was no + pretext for objecting gravely—but it was plain that he was not + pleased. Do not let this make you uncomfortable, he will forget all + about it, and I was not <i>scolded</i>, do you understand. It was more + manner, but my sisters thought as I did of the significance:—and it + was enough to prove to me (if I had not known) what a desperate game + we should be playing if we depended on a yielding nerve <i>there</i>. +</p> +<p> + And to-day I went down-stairs (to prove how my promises stand) though + I could find at least ten good excuses for remaining in my own room, + for our cousin, Sam Barrett, who brought the interruption yesterday + and put me out of humour (it wasn't the fault of the dear little + cousin, Lizzie ... my 'portrait' ... who was '<i>so</i> sorry,' she said, + dear child, to have missed Papa somewhere on the stairs!) the cousin + who should have been in Brittany yesterday instead of here, sate in + the drawing-room all this morning, and had visitors there, and so I + had excellent excuses for never moving from my chair. Yet, the field + being clear at <i>half-past two</i>! I went for half an hour, just—just + for <i>you</i>. Did you think of me, I wonder? It was to meet your thoughts + that I went, dear dearest. +</p> +<p> + How clever these sketches are. The expression produced by such + apparently inadequate means is quite striking; and I have been making + my brothers admire them, and they 'wonder you don't think of employing + them in an illustrated edition of your works.' Which might be, really! + Ah, you did not ask for 'Luria'! Not that I should have let you have + it!—I think I should not indeed. Dearest, you take care of the head + ... and don't make that tragedy of the soul one for mine, by letting + it make you ill. Beware too of the shower-bath—it plainly does not + answer for you at this season. And walk, and think of me for <i>your</i> + good, if such a combination should be possible. +</p> +<p> + And <i>I</i> think of <i>you</i> ... if I do not of Italy. Yet I forget to speak + to you of the Dulwich Gallery. I never saw those pictures, but am + astonished that the whole world should be wrong in praising them. + 'Divine' is a bad word for Murillo in any case—because he is + intensely human in his most supernatural subjects. His beautiful + Trinity in the National Gallery, which I saw the last time I went out + to look at pictures, has no deity in it—and I seem to see it now. And + do you remember the visitation of the angels to Abraham (the Duke of + Sutherland's picture—is it not?) where the mystic visitors look like + shepherds who had not even dreamt of God? But I always understood that + that Dulwich Gallery was famous for great works—you surprise me! And + for painters ... their badness is more ostentatious than that of + poets—they stare idiocy out of the walls, and set the eyes of + sensitive men on edge. For the rest, however, I very much doubt + whether they wear their lives more to rags, than writers who mistake + their vocation in poetry do. There is a mechanism in poetry as in the + other art—and, to men not native to the way of it, it runs hard and + heavily. The 'cudgelling of the brain' is as good labour as the + grinding of the colours, ... do you not think? +</p> +<p> + If ever I am in the Sistine Chapel, it will not be with Mrs. + Jameson—no. If ever I should be there, what teaching I shall want, + <i>I</i> who have seen so few pictures, and love them only as children do, + with an unlearned love, just for the sake of the thoughts they bring. + Wonderfully ignorant I am, to have had eyes and ears so long! There is + music, now, which lifts the hair on my head, I feel it so much, ... + yet all I know of it as art, all I have heard of the works of the + masters in it, has been the mere sign and suggestion, such as the + private piano may give. I never heard an oratorio, for instance, in my + life—judge by <i>that</i>! It is a guess, I make, at all the greatness and + divinity ... feeling in it, though, distinctly and certainly, that a + composer like Beethoven <i>must</i> stand above the divinest painter in + soul-godhead, and nearest to the true poet, of all artists. And this + I felt in my guess, long before I knew you. But observe how, if I had + died in this illness, I should have left a sealed world behind me! + <i>you</i>, unknown too—unguessed at, <i>you</i>, ... in many respects, + wonderfully unguessed at! Lately I have learnt to despise my own + instincts. And apart from those—and <i>you</i>, ... it was right for me to + be melancholy, in the consciousness of passing blindfolded under all + the world-stars, and of going out into another side of the creation, + with a blank for the experience of this ... the last revelation, + unread! How the thought of it used to depress me sometimes! +</p> +<p> + Talking of music, I had a proposition the other day from certain of + Mr. Russell's (the singer's) friends, about his setting to music my + 'Cry of the Children.' His programme exhibits all the horrors of the + world, I see! Lifeboats ... madhouses ... gamblers' wives ... all done + to the right sort of moaning. His audiences must go home delightfully + miserable, I should fancy. He has set the 'Song of the Shirt' ... and + my 'Cry of the Children' will be acceptable, it is supposed, as a + climax of agony. Do you know this Mr. Russell, and what sort of music + he suits to his melancholy? But to turn my 'Cry' to a 'Song,' a + burden, it is said, is required—he can't sing it without a burden! + and behold what has been sent 'for my approval'.... I shall copy it + <i>verbatim</i> for you.... +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">And the threads twirl, twirl, twirl,<br> + +Before each boy and girl;<br> +And the wheels, big and little, still whirl, whirl, whirl. +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">... accompaniment <i>agitato</i>, imitating the roar of the machinery! +</p> +<p> + This is not endurable ... ought not to be ... should it now? Do tell + me. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you, very dearest! Let me hear how you are—and think + how I am +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own.... +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 2, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest, I have been kept in town and just return in time to say why + you have <i>no</i> note ... to-morrow I will write ... so much there is to + say on the subject of this letter I find. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Bless you, all beloved—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<p> + Oh, do not sleep another night on that horrible error I have led you + into! The 'Dulwich Gallery'!—!!!—oh, no. Only some pictures to be + sold at the Greyhound Inn, Dulwich—'the genuine property of a + gentleman deceased.' +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 2, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + One or two words, if no more, I must write to dearest Ba, the night + would go down in double blackness if I had neither written nor been + written to! So here is another piece of 'kindness' on my part, such as + I have received praise for of late! My own sweetest, there is just + this good in such praise, that by it one comes to something pleasantly + definite amid the hazy uncertainties of mere wishes and + possibilities—while my whole heart does, <i>does</i> so yearn, love, to do + something to prove its devotion for you; and, now and then, amuses + itself with foolish imaginings of real substantial services to which + it should be found equal if fortune so granted; suddenly you interpose + with thanks, in such terms as would all too much reward the highest of + even those services which are never to be; and for what?—for a note, + a going to Town, a ——! Well, there are definite beginnings + certainly, if you will recognise them—I mean, that since you <i>do</i> + accept, far from 'despising this day of small things,' then I may + take heart, and be sure that even though none of the great + achievements should fall to my happy chance, still the barrenest, + flattest life will—<i>must</i> of needs produce in its season better + fruits than these poor ones—I keep it, value it, now, that it may + produce such. +</p> +<p> + Also I determine never again to 'analyse,' nor let you analyse if the + sweet mouth can be anyway stopped: the love shall be one and + indivisible—and the Loves we used to know from +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">One another huddled lie ...<br> +Close beside Her tenderly— +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">(which is surely the next line). Now am I not anxious to know what + your father said? And if anybody else said or wondered ... how hould + I know? Of all fighting—the warfare with shadows—what a work is + <i>there</i>. But tell me,—and, with you for me— +</p> +<p> + Bless me dearest ever, as the face above mine blesses me— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own +</p> +<p> + Sir Moses set off this morning, I hear—somebody yesterday called the + telescope an 'optical delusion,' anticipating many more of the kind! + So much for this 'wandering Jew.' +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Upon the whole, I think, I am glad when you are kept in town and + prevented from writing what you call 'much' to me. Because in the + first place, the little from <i>you</i>, is always much to <i>me</i>—and then, + besides, <i>the letter comes</i>, and with it the promise of another! Two + letters have I had from you to-day, ever dearest! How I thank + you!—yes, <i>indeed</i>! It was like yourself to write yesterday ... to + remember what a great gap there would have been otherwise, as it + looked on this side—here. The worst of Saturday is (when you come on + it) that Sunday follows—Saturday night bringing no letter. Well, it + was very good of you, best of you! +</p> +<p> + For the 'analyzing' I give it up willingly, only that I must say what + altogether I forgot to say in my last letter, that it was not <i>I</i>, if + you please, who spoke of the chrystals breaking away! And you, to + quote me with that certainty! "The chrystals are broken off," <i>you + say</i>.' <i>I</i> say!! When it was in your letter, and not at all in mine!! +</p> +<p> + The truth is that I was stupid, rather, about the Dulwich + collection—it was my fault. I caught up the idea of the gallery out + of a heap of other thoughts, and really might have known better if I + had given myself a chance, by considering. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon came to-day, and has taken out a licence, it seems to me, + for praising you, for he praised and praised. Somebody has told him + (who had spent several days with you in a house with a large library) + that he came away 'quite astounded by the versatility of your + learning'—and that, to complete the circle, you discoursed as + scientifically on the training of greyhounds and breeding of ducks as + if you had never done anything else all your life. Then dear Mr. + Kenyon talked of the poems; and hoped, very earnestly I am sure, that + you would finish 'Saul'—which you ought to do, must do—<i>only not + now</i>. By the way Mrs. Coleridge had written to him to enquire whether + you had authority for the 'blue lilies,' rather than white. Then he + asked about 'Luria' and 'whether it was obscure'; and I said, not + unless the people, who considered it, began by blindfolding + themselves. +</p> +<p> + And where do you think Mr. Kenyon talks of going next February—a long + while off to be sure? To Italy of course. Everybody I ever heard of + seems to be going to Italy next winter. He visits his brother at + Vienna, and 'may cross the Alps and get to Pisa'—it is the shadow of + a scheme—nothing certain, so far. +</p> +<p> + I did not go down-stairs to-day because the wind blew and the + thermometer fell. To-morrow, perhaps I may. And <i>you</i>, dearest + dearest, might have put into the letters how you were when you wrote + them. You might—but you did not feel well and would not say so. + Confess that that was the reason. Reason or no reason, mention + yourself to-morrow, and for the rest, do not write a long letter so as + to increase the evil. There was nothing which I can remember as + requiring an answer in what I wrote to you, and though I <i>will</i> have + my letter of course, it shall be as brief as possible, if briefness is + good for you—<i>now always remember that</i>. Why if I, who talk against + 'Luria,' should work the mischief myself, what should I deserve? I + should be my own jury directly and not recommend to mercy ... not to + mine. Do take care—care for <i>me</i> just so much. +</p> +<p> + And, except that taking care of your health, what would you do for me + that you have not done? You have given me the best of the possible + gifts of one human soul to another, you have made my life new, and am + I to count these things as small and insufficient? Ah, you <i>know</i>, you + <i>know</i> that I cannot, ought not, will not. +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. He blesses me in letting me be grateful to you as + your Ba. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + First and most important of all,—dearest, 'angry'—with you, and for + <i>that</i>! It is just as if I had spoken contemptuously of that Gallery I + so love and so am grateful to—having been used to go there when a + child, far under the age allowed by the regulations—those two Guidos, + the wonderful Rembrandt of Jacob's vision, such a Watteau, the + triumphant three Murillo pictures, a Giorgione music-lesson group, + all the Poussins with the 'Armida' and 'Jupiter's nursing'—and—no + end to 'ands'—I have sate before one, some <i>one</i> of those pictures I + had predetermined to see, a good hour and then gone away ... it used + to be a green half-hour's walk over the fields. So much for one error, + now for the second like unto it; what I meant by charging you with + <i>seeing</i>, (not, <i>not</i> '<i>looking</i> for')—<i>seeing</i> undue 'security' in + <i>that</i>, in the form,—I meant to say 'you talk about me being 'free' + now, free till <i>then</i>, and I am rather jealous of the potency + attributed to the <i>form</i>, with all its solemnity, because it <i>is</i> a + form, and no more—yet you frankly agree with me that <i>that</i> form + complied with, there is no redemption; yours I am <i>then</i> sure enough, + to repent at leisure &c. &c.' So I meant to ask, 'then, all <i>now</i> + said, all short of that particular form of saying it, all goes for + comparatively nothing'? Here it is written down—you 'wish to + <i>suspend</i> all decisions as long as possible'—<i>that</i> form effects the + decision, then,—till then, 'where am I'? Which is just what Lord + Chesterfield cautions people against asking when they tell stories. + Love, Ba, my own heart's dearest, if all is <i>not</i> decided + <i>now</i>—why—hear a story, à propos of storytelling, and deduce what is + deducible. A very old Unitarian minister met a still older evangelical + brother—John Clayton (from whose son's mouth I heard what you shall + hear)—the two fell to argument about the true faith to be held—after + words enough, 'Well,' said the Unitarian, as winding up the + controversy with an amicable smile—'at least let us hope we are both + engaged in the <i>pursuit</i> of Truth!'—'<i>Pursuit</i> do you say?' cried the + other, 'here am I with my years eighty and odd—if I haven't <i>found</i> + Truth by this time where is my chance, pray?' My own Ba, if I have not + already <i>decided</i>, alas for me and the solemn words that are to help! + Though in another point of view there would be some luxurious feeling, + beyond the ordinary, in knowing one was kept safe to one's heart's + good by yet another wall than the hitherto recognised ones. Is there + any parallel in the notion I once heard a man deliver himself of in + the street—a labourer talking with his friends about '<i>wishes</i>'—and + this one wished, if he might get his wish, 'to have a nine gallon cask + of strong ale set running that minute and his own mouth to be <i>tied</i> + under it'—the exquisiteness of the delight was to be in the security + upon security,—the being 'tied.' Now, Ba says I shall not be + 'chained' if she can help! +</p> +<p> + But now—here all the jesting goes. You tell me what was observed in + the 'moment's' visit; by you, and (after, I suppose) by your sisters. + First, I <i>will</i> always see with your eyes <i>there</i>—next, what I see I + will <i>never</i> speak, if it pain you; but just this much truth I ought + to say, I think. I always give myself to you for the worst I am,—full + of faults as you will find, if you have not found them. But I <i>will</i> + not affect to be so bad, so wicked, as I count wickedness, as to call + that conduct other than intolerable—<i>there</i>, in my conviction of + <i>that</i>, is your real 'security' and mine for the future as the + present. That a father choosing to give out of his whole day some five + minutes to a daughter, supposed to be prevented from participating in + what he, probably, in common with the whole world of sensible men, as + distinguished from poets and dreamers, consider <i>every</i> pleasure of + life, by a complete foregoing of society—that he, after the Pisa + business and the enforced continuance, and as he must believe, + permanence of this state in which any other human being would go + mad—I do dare say, for the justification of God, who gave the mind to + be <i>used</i> in this world,—where it saves us, we are taught, or + destroys us,—and not to be sunk quietly, overlooked, and forgotten; + that, under these circumstances, finding ... what, you say, unless he + thinks he <i>does</i> find, he would close the door of his house instantly; + a mere sympathizing man, of the same literary tastes, who comes + good-naturedly, on a proper and unexceptionable introduction, to chat + with and amuse a little that invalid daughter, once a month, so far as + is known, for an hour perhaps,—that such a father should show + himself '<i>not pleased</i> plainly,' at such a circumstance ... my Ba, it + is <SPAN class="sc-ex">shocking</span>! See, I go <i>wholly</i> on the supposition that the real + relation is not imagined to exist between us. I so completely could + understand a repugnance to trust you to me were the truth known, that, + I will confess, I have several times been afraid the very reverse of + this occurrence would befall; that your father would have at some time + or other thought himself obliged, by the usual feeling of people in + such cases, to see me for a few minutes and express some commonplace + thanks after the customary mode (just as Capt. Domett sent a heap of + unnecessary thanks to me not long ago for sending now a letter now a + book to his son in New Zealand—keeping up the spirits of poor dear + Alfred now he is cut off from the world at large)—and if <i>this</i> had + been done, I shall not deny that my heart would have accused + me—unreasonably I <i>know</i> but still, suppression, and reserve, and + apprehension—the whole of <i>that is</i> horrible always! But this way of + looking on the endeavour of anybody, however humble, to just preserve + your life, remedy in some degree the first, if it <i>was</i> the first, + unjustifiable measure,—this being 'displeased'—is exactly what I did + <i>not</i> calculate upon. Observe, that in this <i>only</i> instance I am able + to do as I shall be done by; to take up the arms furnished by the + world, the usages of society—this is monstrous on the <i>world's</i> + showing! I say this now that I may never need recur to it—that you + may understand why I keep <i>such</i> entire silence henceforth. +</p> +<p> + Get but well, keep but <i>as</i> well, and all is easy now. This wonderful + winter—the spring—the summer—you will take exercise, go up and down + stairs, get strong. <i>I pray you, at your feet, to do this, dearest!</i> + Then comes Autumn, with the natural expectations, as after <i>rouge</i> one + expects <i>noir</i>: the <i>likelihood</i> of a <i>severe</i> winter after this mild + one, which to prevent, you reiterate your demand to go and save your + life in Italy, ought you not to do that? And the matters brought to + issue, (with even, if possible, less shadow of ground for a refusal + than before, if you are <i>well</i>, plainly well enough to bear the + voyage) <i>there</i> I <i>will</i> bid you 'be mine in the obvious way'—if you + shall preserve your belief in me—and you <i>may</i> in much, in all + important to you. Mr. Kenyon's praise is undeserved enough, but + yesterday Milnes said I was the only literary man he ever knew, <i>tenax + propositi</i>, able to make out a life for himself and abide in + it—'for,' he went on, 'you really do live without any of this + <i>titillation</i> and fussy dependence upon adventitious excitement of all + kinds, they all say they can do without.' That is <i>more</i> true—and I + <i>intend</i> by God's help to live wholly for you; to spend my whole + energies in reducing to practice the feeling which occupies me, and in + the practical operation of which, the other work I had proposed to do + will be found included, facilitated—I shall be able—but of this + there is plenty time to speak hereafter—I shall, I believe, be able + to do this without even allowing the world to <i>very much</i> + misinterpret—against pure lying there is no defence, but all up to + that I hope to hinder or render unimportant—as you shall know in time + and place. +</p> +<p> + I have written myself grave, but write to <i>me</i>, dear, dearest, and I + will answer in a lighter mood—even now I can say how it was + yesterday's hurry happened. I called on Milnes—who told me Hanmer had + broken a bone in his leg and was laid up, so I called on him too—on + Moxon, by the way, (his brother telling me strangely cheering news, + from the grimmest of faces, about my books selling and likely to sell + ... your wishes, Ba!)—then in Bond Street about some business with + somebody, then on Mrs. Montagu who was out walking all the time, and + home too. I found a letter from Mr. Kenyon, perfectly kind, asking me + to go on Monday to meet friends, and with yours to-day comes another + confirming the choice of the day. How entirely kind he is! +</p> +<p> + I am very well, much better, indeed—taking that bath with sensibly + good effect, to-night I go to Montagu's again; for shame, having kept + away too long. +</p> +<p> + And the rest shall answer <i>yours</i>—dear! Not 'much to answer?' And + Beethoven, and Painting and—what <i>is</i> the rest and shall be answered! + Bless you, now, my darling—I love you, ever shall love you, ever be + your own. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 4, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Yes, but, dearest, you mistake me, or you mistake yourself. I am sure + I do not over-care for forms—it is not my way to do it—and in this + case ... no. Still you must see that here is a fact as well as a form, + and involving a frightful quantity of social inconvenience (to use the + mildest word) if too hastily entered on. I deny altogether looking + for, or 'seeing' any 'security' in it for myself—it is a mere form + for the heart and the happiness: illusions may pass after as before. + Still the truth is that if they were to pass with you now, you stand + free to act according to the wide-awakeness of your eyes, and to + reform your choice ... see! whereas afterward you could not carry out + such a reformation while I was alive, even if I helped you. All I + could do for you would be to walk away. And you pretend not to see + this broad distinction?—ah. For me I have seen just this and no more, + and have felt averse to forestall, to seem to forestall even by an + hour, or a word, that stringency of the legal obligation from which + there <i>is</i> in a certain sense no redemption. Tie up your drinker under + the pour of his nine gallons, and in two minutes he will moan and + writhe (as you perfectly know) like a Brinvilliers under the + water-torture. That he <i>asked</i> to be tied up, was unwise on his own + principle of loving ale. And <i>you</i> sha'n't be 'chained' up, if you + were to ask twenty times: if you have found truth or not in the + water-well. +</p> +<p> + You do not see aright what I meant to tell you on another subject. If + he was displeased, (and it was expressed by a shadow a mere negation + of pleasure) it was not with you as a visitor and my friend. You must + not fancy such a thing. It was a sort of instinctive indisposition + towards seeing you here—unexplained to himself, I have no doubt—of + course unexplained, or he would have desired me to receive you never + again, <i>that</i> would have been done at once and unscrupulously. But + without defining his own feeling, he rather disliked seeing you + here—it just touched one of his vibratory wires, brushed by and + touched it—oh, we understand in this house. He is not a nice + observer, but, at intervals very wide, he is subject to + lightnings—call them fancies, sometimes right, sometimes wrong. + Certainly it was not in the character of a 'sympathising friend' that + you made him a very little cross on Monday. And yet you never were nor + will be in danger of being <i>thanked</i>, he would not think of it. For + the reserve, the apprehension—dreadful those things are, and + desecrating to one's own nature—but we did not make this position, we + only endure it. The root of the evil is the miserable misconception of + the limits and character of parental rights—it is a mistake of the + intellect rather than of the heart. Then, after using one's children + as one's chattels for a time, the children drop lower and lower toward + the level of the chattels, and the duties of human sympathy to them + become difficult in proportion. And (it seems strange to say it, yet + it is true) <i>love</i>, he does not conceive of at all. He has feeling, he + can be moved deeply, he is capable of affection in a peculiar way, but + <i>that</i>, he does not understand, any more than he understands Chaldee, + respecting it less of course. +</p> +<p> + And you fancy that I could propose Italy again? after saying too that + I never would? Oh no, no—yet there is time to think of this, a + superfluity of time, ... 'time, times and half a time' and to make + one's head swim with leaning over a precipice is not wise. The roar + of the world comes up too, as you hear and as I heard from the + beginning. There will be no lack of 'lying,' be sure—'pure lying' + too—and nothing you can do, dearest dearest, shall hinder my being + torn to pieces by most of the particularly affectionate friends I have + in the world. Which I do not think of much, any more than of Italy. + You will be mad, and I shall be bad ... and <i>that</i> will be the effect + of being poets! 'Till when, where are you?'—why in the very deepest + of my soul—wherever in it is the fountain head of loving! beloved, + <i>there</i> you are! +</p> +<p> + Some day I shall ask you 'in form,'—as I care so much for forms, it + seems,—what your 'faults' are, these immense multitudinous faults of + yours, which I hear such talk of, and never, never, can get to see. + Will you give me a catalogue raisonnée of your faults? I should like + it, I think. In the meantime they seem to be faults of obscurity, that + is, invisible faults, like those in the poetry which do not keep it + from selling as I am <i>so, so</i> glad to understand. I am glad too that + Mr. Milnes knows you a little. +</p> +<p> + Now I must end, there is no more time to-night. God bless you, very + dearest! Keep better ... try to be well—as <i>I</i> do for you since you + ask me. Did I ever think that <i>you</i> would think it worth while to ask + me <i>that</i>? What a dream! reaching out into the morning! To-day however + I did not go down-stairs, because it was colder and the wind blew its + way into the passages:—if I can to-morrow without risk, I will, ... + be sure ... be sure. Till Thursday then!—till eternity! +</p> +<p> + 'Till when, where am I,' but with you? and what, but yours +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + I have been writing 'autographs' (save my <i>mark</i>) for the North and + the South to-day ... the Fens, and Golden Square. Somebody asked for + a verse, ... from either 'Catarina' or 'Flush' ... 'those poems' &c. + &c.! Such a concatenation of criticisms. So I preferred Flush of + course—i.e. gave him the preferment. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Wednesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 4, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah, sweetest, don't mind people and their lies any more than I shall; + if the toad <i>does</i> 'take it into his toad's head to spit at you'—you + will not 'drop dead,' I warrant. All the same, if one may make a + circuit through a flower-bed and see the less of his toad-habits and + general ugliness, so much the better—no words can express my entire + indifference (far below <i>contempt</i>) for what can be said or done. But + one thing, only one, I choose to hinder being said, if I can—the + others I would not if I could—why prevent the toad's puffing himself + out thrice his black bigness if it amuses him among those wet stones? + We shall be in the sun. +</p> +<p> + I dare say I am unjust—hasty certainly, in the other matter—but all + faults are such inasmuch as they are 'mistakes of the + intellect'—toads may spit or leave it alone,—but if I ever see it + right, exercising my intellect, to treat any human beings like my + 'chattels'—I shall pay for that mistake one day or another, I am + convinced—and I very much fear that you would soon discover what one + fault of mine is, if you were to hear anyone assert such a right in my + presence. +</p> +<p> + Well, I shall see you to-morrow—had I better come a little later, I + wonder?—half-past three, for instance, staying, as last time, till + ... ah, it is ill policy to count my treasure aloud! Or shall I come + at the usual time to-morrow? If I do <i>not</i> hear, at the usual + time!—because, I think you would—am sure you would have considered + and suggested it, were it necessary. +</p> +<p> + Bless you, dearest—ever your own. +</p> +<p> + I said nothing about that Mr. Russell and his proposition—by all + means, yes—let him do more good with that noble, pathetic 'lay'—and + do not mind the 'burthen,' if he is peremptory—so that he duly + specify '<i>by the singer</i>'—with <i>that</i> precaution nothing but good can + come of his using it. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Thursday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 6, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest I lose no time in writing, you see, so as to be written + to at the soonest—and there is another reason which makes me hasten + to write ... it is not all mercantile calculation. I want you to + understand me. +</p> +<p> + Now listen! I seem to understand myself: it seems to me that every + word I ever said to you on one subject, is plainly referable to a + class of feelings of which you could not complain ... could not. But + this is <i>my</i> impression; and yours is different:—you do not + understand, you do not see by my light, and perhaps it is natural that + you should not, as we stand on different steps of the argument. Still + I, who said what I did, <i>for you</i>, and from an absorbing consideration + of what was best <i>for you</i>, cannot consent, even out of anxiety for + your futurity, to torment you now, to vex you by a form of speech + which you persist in translating into a want of trust in you ... (<i>I</i>, + want trust in you!!) into a need of more evidence about you from + others ... (<i>could</i> you say so?) and even into an indisposition on my + part to fulfil my engagement—no, dearest dearest, it is not right of + you. And therefore, as you have these thoughts reasonably or + unreasonably, I shall punish you for them at once, and 'chain' you ... + (as you wish to be chained), chain you, rivet you—do you feel how the + little fine chain twists round and round you? do you hear the stroke + of the riveting? and you may <i>feel that</i> too. Now, it is done—now, + you are chained—<i>Bia</i> has finished the work—I, <i>Ba</i>! (observe the + anagram!) and not a word do you say, of Prometheus, though you have + the conscience of it all, I dare say. Well! you must be pleased, ... + as it was 'the weight of too much liberty' which offended you: and now + you believe, perhaps, that I trust you, love you, and look to you over + the heads of the whole living world, without any one head needing to + stoop; you <i>must</i>, if you please, because you belong to me now and + shall believe as I choose. There's a ukase for you! Cry out ... repent + ... and I will loose the links, and let you go again—<i>shall</i> it be + '<i>My dear Miss Barrett</i>?' +</p> +<p> + Seriously, you shall not think of me such things as you half said, if + not whole said, to-day. If all men were to speak evil of you, my heart + would speak of you the more good—<i>that</i> would be the one result with + <i>me</i>. Do I not know you, soul to soul? should I believe that any of + them could know you as I know you? Then for the rest, I am not afraid + of 'toads' now, not being a child any longer. I am not inclined to + mind, if <i>you</i> do not mind, what may be said about us by the + benevolent world, nor will other reasons of a graver kind affect me + otherwise than by the necessary pain. Therefore the whole rests with + you—unless illness should intervene—and you will be kind and good + (will you not?) and not think hard thoughts of me ever again—no. It + wasn't the sense of being less than you had a right to pretend to, + which made me speak what you disliked—for it is <i>I</i> who am + 'unworthy,' and not another—not certainly that other! +</p> +<p> + I meant to write more to-night of subjects farther off us, but my + sisters have come up-stairs and I must close my letter quickly. + Beloved, take care of your head! Ah, do not write poems, nor read, nor + neglect the walking, nor take that shower-bath. <i>Will</i> you, instead, + try the warm bathing? Surely the experiment is worth making for a + little while. Dearest beloved, do it for your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 6, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I am altogether your own, dearest—the words were only words and the + playful feelings were play—while the <i>fact</i> has always been so + irresistibly obvious as to make them <i>break</i> on and off it, + fantastically like water turning to spray and spurts of foam on a + great solid rock. <i>Now</i> you call the rock, a rock, but you must have + known what chance you had of pushing it down when you sent all those + light fancies and free-leaves, and refusals-to-hold-responsible, to do + what they could. It <i>is</i> a rock; and may be quite barren of good to + you,—not large enough to build houses on, not small enough to make a + mantelpiece of, much less a pedestal for a statue, but it is real + rock, that is all. +</p> +<p> + It is always <i>I</i> who 'torment' <i>you</i>—instead of taking the present + and blessing you, and leaving the future to its own cares. I certainly + am not apt to look curiously into what next week is to bring, much + less next month or six months, but you, the having you, my own, + dearest beloved, <i>that</i> is as different in kind as in degree from any + other happiness or semblance of it that even seemed possible of + realization. Then, now, the health is all to stay, or retard us—oh, + be well, my Ba! +</p> +<p> + Let me speak of that letter—I am ashamed at having mentioned those + circumstances, and should not have done so, but for their + insignificance—for I knew that if you ever <i>did</i> hear of them, all + any body <i>would</i> say would not amount to enough to be repeated to me + and so get explained at once. Now that the purpose is gained, it seems + little worth gaining. You bade me not send the letter: I will not. +</p> +<p> + As for 'what people say'—ah—Here lies a book, Bartoli's 'Simboli' + and this morning I dipped into his Chapter XIX. His 'Symbol' is + 'Socrate fatto ritrar su' Boccali' and the theme of his dissertating, + 'L'indegnità del mettere in disprezzo i più degni filosofi + dell'antichità.' He sets out by enlarging on the horror of it—then + describes the character of Socrates, then tells the story of the + representation of the 'Clouds,'and thus gets to his 'symbol'—'le + pazzie fatte spacciare a Socrate in quella commedia ... il misero in + tanto scherno e derisione del pubblico, che perfino i vasai + dipingevano il suo ritratto sopra gli orci, i fiaschi, i boccali, e + ogni vasellamento da più vile servigio. Così quel sommo filosofo ... + fu condotto a far di se par le case d'Atene una continua commedia, con + solamente vederlo comparir così scontraffatto e ridicolo, come i vasai + sel formavano d'invenzione'— +</p> +<p> + There you have what a very clever man can say in choice Tuscan on a + passage in Ælian which he takes care not to quote nor allude to, but + which is the sole authority for the fact. Ælian, speaking of Socrates' + magnanimity, says that on the first representation, a good many + foreigners being present who were at a loss to know 'who could be this + Socrates'—the sage himself stood up that he might be pointed out to + them by the auditory at large ... 'which' says Ælian—'was no + difficulty for them, to whom his features were most familiar,—<i>the + very potters being in the habit of decorating their vessels with his + likeness</i>'—no doubt out of a pleasant and affectionate admiration. + Yet see how 'people' can turn this out of its sense,—'say' their say + on the simplest, plainest word or deed, and change it to its opposite! + 'God's great gift of speech abused' indeed! +</p> +<p> + But what shall we hear of it <i>there</i>, my Siren? +</p> +<p> + On Monday—is it not? <i>Who</i> was it looked into the room just at our + leave-taking? +</p> +<p> + Bless you, my ever dearest,—remember to walk, to go down-stairs—and + be sure that I will endeavour to get well for my part. To-day I am + very well—with this letter! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Always <i>you</i>, is it, who torments me? always <i>you</i>? Well! I agree to + bear the torments as Socrates his persecution by the potters:—and by + the way he liked those potters, as Plato shows, and was fain to go to + them for his illustrations ... as I to you for all my light. Also, + while we are on the subject, I will tell you another fault of your + Bartoli ... his 'choice Tuscan' filled one of my pages, in the place + of my English better than Tuscan. +</p> +<p> + For the letter you mentioned, I meant to have said in mine yesterday, + that I was grateful to you for telling me of it—<i>that</i> was one of the + prodigalities of your goodness to me ... not thrown away, in one + sense, however superfluous. Do you ever think how I must feel when you + overcome me with all this generous tenderness, only beloved! I cannot + say it. +</p> +<p> + Because it is colder to-day I have not been down-stairs but let + to-morrow be warm enough—<i>facilis descensus</i>. There's something + infernal to me really, in the going down, and now too that our cousin + is here! Think of his beginning to attack Henrietta the other day.... + '<i>So</i> Mr. C. has retired and left the field to Surtees Cook. Oh ... + you needn't deny ... it's the news of all the world except your + father. And as to <i>him</i>, I don't blame you—he never will consent to + the marriage of son or daughter. Only you should consider, you know, + because he won't leave you a shilling, &c. &c....' You hear the sort + of man. And then in a minute after ... 'And what is this about Ba?' + 'About Ba' said my sisters, 'why who has been persuading you of such + nonsense?' 'Oh, my authority is very good,—perfectly unnecessary for + you to tell any stories, Arabel,—a literary friendship, is it?' ... + and so on ... after that fashion! This comes from my brothers of + course, but we need not be afraid of its passing <i>beyond</i>, I think, + though I was a good deal vexed when I heard first of it last night and + have been in cousinly anxiety ever since to get our Orestes safe away + from those Furies his creditors, into Brittany again. He is an + intimate friend of my brothers besides the relationship, and they talk + to him as to each other, only they oughtn't to have talked <i>that</i>, and + without knowledge too. +</p> +<p> + I forgot to tell you that Mr. Kenyon was in an immoderate joy the day + I saw him last, about Mr. Poe's 'Raven' as seen in the <i>Athenæum</i> + extracts, and came to ask what I knew of the poet and his poetry, and + took away the book. It's the rhythm which has taken him with 'glamour' + I fancy. Now you will stay on Monday till the last moment, and go to + him for dinner at six. +</p> +<p> + Who 'looked in at the door?' Nobody. But Arabel a little way opened + it, and hearing your voice, went back. There was no harm—<i>is</i> no fear + of harm. Nobody in the house would find his or her pleasure in running + the risk of giving me pain. I mean my brothers and sisters would not. +</p> +<p> + Are you trying the music to charm the brain to stillness? Tell me. And + keep from that 'Soul's Tragedy' which did so much harm—oh, that I had + bound you by some Stygian oath not to touch it. +</p> +<p> + So my rock ... may the birds drop into your crevices the seeds of all + the flowers of the world—only it is not for <i>those</i>, that I cling to + you as the single rock in the salt sea. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever I am +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 7, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You call me 'kind'; and by this time I have no heart to call you such + names—I told you, did I not once? that 'Ba' had got to convey + infinitely more of you to my sense than 'dearest,' 'sweetest,' all or + any epithets that break down with their load of honey like bees—to + say you are 'kind,' you that so entirely and unintermittingly bless + me,—it will never do now, 'Ba.' All the same, one way there is to + make even 'Ba' dearer,—'<i>my</i> Ba,' I say to myself! +</p> +<p> + About my <i>fears</i>—whether of opening doors or entering people—one + thing is observable and prevents the possibility of any + misconception—I desire, have been in the habit of desiring, to + <i>increase</i> them, far from diminishing—they relate, of course, + entirely to <i>you</i>—and only through <i>you</i> affect me the least in the + world. Put your well-being out of the question, so far as I can + understand it to be involved,—and the pleasure and pride I should + immediately choose would be that the whole world knew our position. + What pleasure, what pride! But I endeavour to remember on all + occasions—and perhaps succeed in too few—that it is very easy for me + to go away and leave you who cannot go. I only allude to this because + some people are 'naturally nervous' and all that—and I am quite of + another kind. +</p> +<p> + Last evening I went out—having been kept at home in the afternoon to + see somebody ... went walking for hours. I am quite well to-day and, + now your letter comes, my Ba, most happy. And, as the sun shines, you + are perhaps making the perilous descent now, while I write—oh, to + meet you on the stairs! And I shall really see you on Monday, dearest? + So soon, it ought to feel, considering the dreary weeks that now get + to go between our days! For music, I made myself melancholy just now + with some 'Concertos for the Harpsichord by Mr. Handel'—brought home + by my father the day before yesterday;—what were light, modern things + once! Now I read not very long ago a French memoir of 'Claude le + Jeune' called in his time the Prince of Musicians,—no, + '<i>Phoenix</i>'—the unapproachable wonder to all time—that is, twenty + years after his death about—and to this pamphlet was prefixed as + motto this startling axiom—'In Music, the Beau Ideal changes every + thirty years'—well, is not that <i>true</i>? The <i>Idea</i>, mind, + changes—the general standard ... so that it is no answer that a + single air, such as many one knows, may strike as freshly as + ever—they were <i>not</i> according to the Ideal of their own time—just + now, they drop into the ready ear,—next hundred years, who will be + the Rossini? who is no longer the Rossini even I remember—his early + overtures are as purely Rococo as Cimarosa's or more. The sounds + remain, keep their character perhaps—the scale's proportioned notes + affect the same, that is,—the major third, or minor seventh—but the + arrangement of these, the sequence the law—for them, if it <i>should</i> + change every thirty years! To Corelli nothing seemed so conclusive in + Heaven or earth as this +</p> +<center> +<img src="images/image06.png" width="400" height="78" +alt="Music "> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p> + I don't believe there is one of his sonatas wherein that formula does + not do duty. In these things of Handel that seems replaced by +</p> +<center> +<img src="images/image07.png" width="466" height="95" +alt="Music "> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">—that was the only true consummation! Then,—to go over the hundred + years,—came Rossini's unanswerable coda: +</p> +<center> +<img src="images/image08.png" width="550" height="187" +alt="Music "> +</center> +<!--IMAGE END--> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">which serves as base to the infinity of songs, gone, gone—<i>so</i> gone + by! From all of which Ba draws <i>this</i> 'conclusion' that these may be + worse things than Bartoli's Tuscan to cover a page with!—yet, yet the + pity of it! Le Jeune, the Phoenix, and Rossini who directed his + letters to his mother as 'mother of the famous composer'—and Henry + Lawes, and Dowland's Lute, ah me! +</p> +<p> + Well, my conclusion is the best, the everlasting, here and I trust + elsewhere—I am your own, my Ba, ever your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 10, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Now I shall know what to believe when you talk of very bad and very + indifferent doings of yours. Dearest, I read your 'Soul's Tragedy' + last night and was quite possessed with it, and fell finally into a + mute wonder how you could for a moment doubt about publishing it. It + is very vivid, I think, and vital, and impressed me more than the + first act of 'Luria' did, though I do not mean to compare such + dissimilar things, and for pure nobleness 'Luria' is + unapproachable—will prove so, it seems to me. But this 'Tragedy' + shows more heat from the first, and then, the words beat down more + closely ... well! I am struck by it all as you see. If you keep it up + to this passion, if you justify this high key-note, it is a great + work, and worthy of a place next 'Luria.' Also do observe how + excellently balanced the two will be, and how the tongue of this next + silver Bell will swing from side to side. And <i>you</i> to frighten me + about it. Yes, and the worst is (because it was stupid in me) the + worst is that I half believed you and took the manuscript to be + something inferior—for <i>you</i>—and the adviseableness of its + publication, a doubtful case. And yet, after all, the really worst is, + that you should prove yourself such an adept at deceiving! For can it + be possible that the same +</p> +<p style="text-align: center">'Robert Browning'</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">who (I heard the other day) said once that he could 'wait three + hundred years,' should not feel the life of centuries in this work + too—can it be? Why all the pulses of the life of it are beating in + even <i>my</i> ears! +</p> +<p> + Tell me, beloved, how you are—I shall hear it to-night—shall I not? + To think of your being unwell, and forced to go here and go there to + visit people to whom your being unwell falls in at best among the + secondary evils!—makes me discontented—which is one shade more to + the uneasiness I feel. Will you take care, and not give away your life + to these people? Because I have a better claim than they ... and shall + put it in, if provoked ... <i>shall</i>. Then you will not use the + shower-bath again—you promise? I dare say Mr. Kenyon observed + yesterday how unwell you were looking—tell me if he didn't! Now do + not work, dearest! Do not think of Chiappino, leave him behind ... he + has a good strong life of his own, and can wait for you. Oh—but let + me remember to say of him, that he and the other personages appear to + me to articulate with perfect distinctness and clearness ... you need + not be afraid of having been obscure in this first part. It is all as + lucid as noon. +</p> +<p> + Shall I go down-stairs to-day? 'No' say the privy-councillors, + 'because it is cold,' but I <i>shall</i> go peradventure, because the sun + brightens and brightens, and the wind has gone round to the west. +</p> +<p> + George had come home yesterday before you left me, but the stars were + favourable to us and kept him out of this room. Now he is at + Worcester—went this morning, on those never ending 'rounds,' poor + fellow, which weary him I am sure. +</p> +<p> + And why should music and the philosophy of it make you 'melancholy,' + ever dearest, more than the other arts, which each has the seal of the + age, modifying itself after a fashion and <i>to</i> one? Because it changes + more, perhaps. Yet all the Arts are mediators between the soul and the + Infinite, ... shifting always like a mist, between the Breath on this + side, and the Light on that side ... shifted and coloured; mediators, + messengers, projected from the Soul, to go and feel, for Her, <i>out + there</i>! +</p> +<p> + You don't call me 'kind' I confess—but then you call me 'too kind' + which is nearly as bad, you must allow on your part. Only you were not + in earnest when you said <i>that</i>, as it appeared afterward. <i>Were</i> you, + yesterday, in pretending to think that I owed you nothing ... <i>I</i>? +</p> +<p> + May God bless you. He knows that to give myself to you, is not to pay + you. Such debts are not so paid. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Yet I am your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + <i>People's Journal</i> for March 7th. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 10, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dear, dear Ba, if you were here I should not much <i>speak</i> to you, not + at first—nor, indeed, at last,—but as it is, sitting alone, only + words can be spoken, or (worse) written, and, oh how different to look + into the eyes and imagine what <i>might</i> be said, what ought to be said, + though it never can be—and to sit and say and write, and only imagine + who looks above me, looks down, understanding and pardoning all! My + love, my Ba, the fault you found once with some expressions of mine + about the amount of imperishable pleasures already hoarded in my mind, + the indestructible memories of you; that fault, which I refused to + acquiesce under the imputation of, at first, you remember—well, + <i>what</i> a fault it was, by this better light! If all stopped here and + now; horrible! complete oblivion were the thing to be prayed for, + rather! As it is, <i>now</i>, I must go on, must live the life out, and die + yours. And you are doing your utmost to advance the event of + events,—the exercise, and consequently (is it not?) necessarily + improved sleep, and the projects for the fine days, the walking ... a + pure bliss to think of! Well, now—I think I shall show seamanship of + a sort, and 'try another tack'—do not be over bold, my sweetest; the + cold <i>is</i> considerable,—taken into account the previous mildness. One + ill-advised (I, the <i>adviser</i>, I should remember!) too early, or too + late descent to the drawing-room, and all might be ruined,—thrown + back so far ... seeing that our flight is to be prayed for 'not in the + winter'—and one would be called on to wait, wait—in this world where + nothing waits, rests, as can be counted on. Now think of this, too, + dearest, and never mind the slowness, for the sureness' sake! How + perfectly happy I am as you stand by me, as yesterday you stood, as + you seem to stand now! +</p> +<p> + I will write to-morrow more: I came home last night with a head rather + worse; which in the event was the better, for I took a little medicine + and all is very much improved to-day. I shall go out presently, and + return very early and take as much care as is proper—for I thought of + Ba, and the sublimities of Duty, and that gave myself airs of + importance, in short, as I looked at my mother's inevitable arrow-root + this morning. So now I am well; so now, is dearest Ba well? I shall + hear to-night ... which will have its due effect, that circumstance, + in quickening my retreat from Forster's Rooms. All was very pleasant + last evening—and your letter &c. went <i>à qui de droit</i>, and Mr. W. + <i>Junior</i> had to smile good-naturedly when Mr. Burges began laying down + this general law, that the sons of all men of genius were poor + creatures—and Chorley and I exchanged glances after the fashion of + two Augurs meeting at some street-corner in Cicero's time, as he says. + And Mr. Kenyon was kind, kinder, kindest, as ever, 'and thus ends a + wooing'!—no, a dinner—my wooing ends never, never; and so prepare + to be asked to give, and give, and give till all is given in Heaven! + And all I give <i>you</i> is just my heart's blessing; God bless you, my + dearest, dearest Ba! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 11, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + You find my letter I trust, for it was written this morning in time; + and if these two lines should not be flattery ... oh, rank flattery! + ... why happy letter is it, to help to bring you home ten minutes + earlier, when you never ought to have left home—no, indeed! I knew + how it would be yesterday, and how you would be worse and not better. + You are not fit to go out, dear dearest, to sit in the glare of lights + and talk and listen, and have the knives and forks to rattle all the + while and remind you of the chains of necessity. Oh—should I bear it, + do you think? I was thinking, when you went away—<i>after</i> you had + quite gone. You would laugh to see me at my dinner—Flush and + me—Flush placing in me such an heroic confidence, that, after he has + cast one discriminating glance on the plate, and, in the case of + 'chicken,' wagged his tail with an emphasis, ... he goes off to the + sofa, shuts his eyes and allows a full quarter of an hour to pass + before he returns to take his share. Did you ever hear of a dog before + who did not persecute one with beseeching eyes at mealtimes? And + remember, this is not the effect of <i>discipline</i>. Also if another than + myself happens to take coffee or break bread in the room here, he + teazes straightway with eyes and paws, ... teazes like a common dog + and is put out of the door before he can be quieted by scolding. But + with <i>me</i> he is sublime! Moreover he has been a very useful dog in his + time (in the point of capacity), causing to disappear supererogatory + dinners and impossible breakfasts which, to do him justice, is a feat + accomplished without an objection on his side, always. +</p> +<p> + So, when you write me such a letter, I write back to you about Flush. + Dearest beloved, but I have read the letter and felt it in my heart, + through and through! and it is as wise to talk of Flush foolishly, as + to fancy that I <i>could say how</i> it is felt ... this letter! Only when + you spoke last of breaking off with such and such recollections, it + was the melancholy of the breaking off which I protested against, was + it not? and <i>not</i> the insufficiency of the recollections. There might + have been something besides in jest. Ah, but <i>you</i> remember, if you + please, that <i>I</i> was the first to wish (wishing for my own part, if I + could wish exclusively) to break off in the middle the silken thread, + and you told me, not—you forbade me—do you remember? For, as + happiness goes, the recollections were enough, ... <i>are</i> enough for + <i>me</i>! I mean that I should acknowledge them to be full compensation + for the bitter gift of life, <i>such as it was</i>, to me! if that + subject-matter were broken off here! 'Bona verba' let me speak + nevertheless. You mean, you say, to run all risks with me, and I don't + mean to draw back from my particular risk of ... what am I to do to + you hereafter to make you vexed with me? What is there in marriage to + make all these people on every side of us, (who all began, I suppose, + by talking of love,) look askance at one another from under the silken + mask ... and virtually hate one another through the tyranny of the + stronger and the hypocrisy of the weaker party. It never could be so + with <i>us</i>—<i>I know that</i>. But you grow awful to me sometimes with the + very excess of your goodness and tenderness, and still, I think to + myself, if you do not keep lifting me up quite off the ground by the + strong faculty of love in you, I shall not help falling short of the + hope you have placed in me—it must be 'supernatural' of you, to the + end! or I fall short and disappoint you. Consider this, beloved. Now + if I could put my soul out of my body, just to stand up before you + and make it clear. +</p> +<p> + I did go to the drawing-room to-day ... would ... should ... did. The + sun came out, the wind changed ... where was the obstacle? I spent a + quarter of an hour in a fearful solitude, listening for knocks at the + door, as a ghost-fearer might at midnight, and 'came home' none the + worse in any way. Be sure that I shall 'take care' better than you do, + and there, is the worst of it all—for <i>you</i> let people make you ill, + and do it yourself upon occasion. +</p> +<p> + You know from my letter how I found you out in the matter of the + 'Soul's Tragedy.' Oh! so bad ... so weak, so unworthy of your name! If + some other people were half a quarter as much the contrary! +</p> +<p> + And so, good-night, dear dearest. In spite of my fine speeches about + 'recollections,' I should be unhappy enough to please you, with <i>only + those</i> ... without you beside! I could not take myself back from being +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 11, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dear, dear Ba, but indeed I <i>did</i> return home earlier by two or three + good hours than the night before—and to find <i>no</i> letter,—none of + yours! <i>That</i> was reserved for this morning early, and then a rest + came, a silence, over the thoughts of you—and now again, comes this + last note! Oh, my love—why—what is it you think to do, or become + 'afterward,' that you may fail in and so disappoint me? It is not very + unfit that you should thus punish yourself, and that, sinning by your + own ambition of growing something beyond my Ba even, you should 'fear' + as you say! For, sweet, why wish, why think to alter ever by a line, + change by a shade, turn better if that were possible, and so only rise + the higher above me, get further from instead of nearer to my heart? + What I expect, what I build my future on, am quite, quite prepared to + 'risk' everything for,—is that one belief that you <i>will not alter</i>, + will just remain as you are—meaning by '<i>you</i>,' the love in you, the + qualities I have <i>known</i> (for you will stop me, if I do not stop + myself) what I have evidence of in every letter, in every word, every + look. Keeping these, if it be God's will that the body passes,—what + is that? Write no new letters, speak no new words, look no new + looks,—only tell me, years hence that the present is alive, that what + was once, still is—and I am, must needs be, blessed as ever! You + speak of my feeling as if it were a pure speculation—as if because I + <i>see somewhat</i> in you I make a calculation that there must be more to + see somewhere or other—where bdellium is found, the onyx-stone may be + looked for in the mystic land of the four rivers! And perhaps ... ah, + poor human nature!—perhaps I <i>do</i> think at times on what <i>may</i> be to + find! But what is that to you? I <i>offer</i> for the <i>bdellium</i>—the other + may be found or not found ... what I see glitter on the ground, <i>that</i> + will suffice to make me rich as—rich as— +</p> +<p> + So bless you my own Ba! I would not wait for paper, and you must + forgive half-sheets, instead of a whole celestial quire to my love and + praise. Are you so well? So adventurous? Thank you from my heart of + hearts. And I am quite well to-day (and have received a note from + Procter <i>just</i> this <i>minute</i> putting off his dinner on account of the + death of his wife's sister's husband abroad). Observe <i>this</i> sheet I + take as I find—I mean, that the tear tells of no improper speech + repented of—what English, what sense, what a soul's tragedy! but + then, what real, realest love and more than love for my ever dearest + Ba possesses her own— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 12, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + When my Orpheus writes '<span title="Peri lithôn">Περι λιθων</span>' he makes a great mistake + about onyxes—there is more true onyx in this letter of his that I + have just read, than he will ever find in the desert land he goes to. + And for what 'glitters on the ground,' it reminds me of the yellow + metal sparks found in the Malvern Hills, and how we used to laugh + years ago at one of our geological acquaintances, who looked + mole-hills up that mountain-range in the scorn of his eyes, saying ... + 'Nothing but mica!!' Is anybody to be rich through 'mica', I wonder? + through 'Nothing but mica?' 'As rich as—as rich as' ... <i>Walter the + Pennyless</i>? +</p> +<p> + Dearest, best you are nevertheless, and it is a sorry jest which I can + break upon your poverty, with that golden heart of yours so + apprehended of mine! Why if I am 'ambitious'—is it not because you + love me as if I were worthier of your love, and that, <i>so</i>, I get + frightened of the opening of your eyelids to the <i>un</i>worthiness? 'A + little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to + sleep'—<i>there</i>, is my 'ambition for afterward.' Oh—you do not + understand how with an unspeakable wonder, an astonishment which keeps + me from drawing breath, I look to this Dream, and 'see your face as + the face of an angel,' and fear for the vanishing, ... because dreams + and angels <i>do</i> pass away in this world. But <i>you</i>, <i>I</i> understand + <i>you</i>, and all your goodness past expression, past belief of mine, if + I had not known you ... just <i>you</i>. If it will satisfy you that I + should know you, love you, love you—why then indeed—because I never + bowed down to any of the false gods I know the gold from the mica, ... + I! 'My own beloved'—you should have my soul to stand on if it could + make you stand higher. Yet you shall not call me 'ambitious.' +</p> +<p> + To-day I went down-stairs again, and wished to know whether you were + walking in your proportion—and your letter does call you 'better,' + whether you walked enough or not, and it bears the Deptford post-mark. + On Saturday I shall see how you are looking. So pale you were last + time! I know Mr. Kenyon must have observed it, (dear Mr. Kenyon ... + for being 'kinder and kindest') and that one of the 'augurs' + marvelled at the other! By the way I forgot yesterday to tell you how + Mr. Burges's 'apt remark' did amuse me. And Mr. Kenyon who said much + the same words to me last week in relation to this very Wordsworth + junior, writhed, I am sure, and wished the ingenious observer with the + lost plays of Æschylus—oh, I seem to see Mr. Kenyon's face! He was to + have come to tell me how you all behaved at dinner that day, but he + keeps away ... you have given him too much to think of perhaps. +</p> +<p> + I heard from Miss Mitford to-day that Mr. Chorley's hope is at an end + in respect to the theatre, and (I must tell you) she praises him + warmly for his philosophy and fortitude under the disappointment. How + much philosophy does it take,—please to instruct me,—in order to the + decent bearing of such disasters? Can I fancy one, shorter than you by + a whole head of the soul, condescending to '<i>bear</i>' such things? No, + indeed. +</p> +<p> + Be good and kind, and do not work at the 'Tragedy' ... do not. +</p> +<p> + So you and I have written out all the paper in London! At least, I + send and send in vain to have more envelopes 'after my kind,' and the + last answer is, that a 'fresh supply will arrive in eight days from + Paris, and that in the meanwhile they are quite <i>out</i> in the article.' + An awful sign of the times, is this famine of envelopes ... not to + speak of the scarcity of little sheets:—and the augurs look to it all + of course. +</p> +<p> + For <i>my</i> part I think more of Chiappino—Chiappino holds me fast. +</p> +<p> + But I must let <i>you</i> go—it is too late. This dearest letter, which + you sent me! I thank you for it with ever so much dumbness. May God + bless you and keep you, and make you happy for me. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your <SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 12, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + How I get to understand this much of Law—that prior possession is + nine points of it! Just because your infinite adroitness got first + hold of the point of view whence our connection looks like 'a dream' + ... I find myself shut out of my very own, unable to say what is + oftenest in my thought; whereas the dear, miraculous dream <i>you</i> were, + and are, my Ba! Only, <i>vanish</i>—<i>that</i> you will never! My own, and for + ever! +</p> +<p> + Yesterday I read the poor, inconceivably inadequate notice in the + <i>People's Journal</i>. How curiously wrong, too, in the personal guesses! + Sad work truly. For my old friend Mrs. Adams—no, I must be silent: + the lyrics seem doggerel in its utter purity. And so the people are to + be instructed in the new age of gold! I <i>heard</i> two days ago precisely + what I told you—that there was a quarrel, &c. which this service was + to smooth over, no doubt. Chorley told me, in a hasty word only, that + all was over, Mr. Webster would not have anything to do with his play. + The said W. is one of the poorest of poor creatures, and as Chorley + was certainly forewarned, forearmed I will hope him to have been + likewise—still it is very disappointing—he was apparently nearer + than most aspirants to the prize,—having the best will of the + actresses on whose shoulder the burthen was to lie. I hope they have + been quite honest with him—knowing as I do the easy process of + transferring all sorts of burthens, in that theatrical world, from + responsible to irresponsible members of it, actors to manager, manager + to actors, as the case requires. And it is a 'hope deferred' with + Chorley; not for the second or third time. I am very glad that he + cares no more than you tell me. +</p> +<p> + Still you go down-stairs, and still return safely, and every step + leads us nearer to <i>my</i> 'hope.' How unremittingly you bless me—a + visit promises a letter, a letter brings such news, crowns me with + such words, and speaks of another visit—and so the golden links + extend. Dearest words, dearest letters—as I add each to my heap, I + say—I <i>do</i> say—'I was <i>poor</i>, it now seems, a minute ago, when I had + not <i>this</i>!' Bless you, dear, dear Ba. On Saturday I shall be with + you, I trust—may God bless you! Ever your own +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ever dearest I am going to say one word first of all lest I should + forget it afterward, of the two or three words which you said + yesterday and so passingly that you probably forget to-day having said + them at all. We were speaking of Mr. Chorley and his house, and you + said that you did not care for such and such things for yourself, but + that for others—now you remember the rest. And I just want to say + what it would have been simpler to have said at the time—only not so + easy—(I <i>couldn't</i> say it at the time) that you are not if you please + to fancy that because I am a woman I have not the pretension to do + with as little in any way as you yourself ... no, it is not <i>that</i> I + mean to say.... I mean that you are not, if you please, to fancy that, + because I am a woman, I look to be cared for in those outside things, + or should have the slightest pleasure in any of them. So never wish + nor regret in your thoughts to be able or not to be able to care this + and this for <i>me</i>; for while you are thinking so, our thoughts go + different ways, which is wrong. Mr. Fox did me a great deal too much + honour in calling me 'a religious hermit'; he was 'curiously' in + fault, as you saw. It is not my vocation to sit on a stone in a + cave—I was always too fond of lolling upon sofas or in chairs nearly + as large,—and this, which I sit in, was given to me when I was a + child by my uncle, the uncle I spoke of to you once, and has been + lolled in nearly ever since ... when I was well enough. Well—<i>that</i> + is a sort of luxury, of course—but it is more idle than expensive, as + a habit, and I do believe that it is the 'head and foot of my + offending' in that matter. Yes—'confiteor tibi' besides, that I do + hate white dimity curtains, which is highly improper for a religious + hermit of course, but excusable in <i>me</i> who would accept brown serge + as a substitute with ever so much indifference. It is the white light + which comes in the dimity which is so hateful to me. To 'go mad in + white dimity' seems perfectly natural, and consequential even. Set + aside these foibles, and one thing is as good as another with me, and + the more simplicity in the way of living, the better. If I saw Mr. + Chorley's satin sofas and gilded ceilings I should call them very + pretty I dare say, but never covet the possession of the like—it + would never enter my mind to do so. Then Papa has not kept a carriage + since I have been grown up (they grumble about it here in the house, + but when people have once had great reverses they get nervous about + spending money) so I shall not miss the Clarence and greys ... and I + do entreat you <i>not</i> to put those two ideas together again of <i>me</i> and + the finery which has nothing to do with me. I have talked a great deal + too much of all this, you will think, but I want you, once for all, to + apply it broadly to the whole of the future both in the general view + and the details, so that we need not return to the subject. Judge for + me as for yourself—<i>what is good for you is good for me</i>. Otherwise I + shall be humiliated, you know; just as far as I know your thoughts. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon has been here to-day—and I have been down-stairs—two + great events! He was in brilliant spirits and sate talking ever so + long, and named you as he always does. Something he asked, and then + said suddenly ... 'But I don't see why I should ask <i>you</i>, when I + ought to know him better than you can.' On which I was wise enough to + change colour, as I felt, to the roots of my hair. There is the + effect of a bad conscience! and it has happened to me before, with Mr. + Kenyon, three times—once particularly, when I could have cried with + vexation (to complete the effects!), he looked at me with such + infinite surprise in a dead pause of any speaking. <i>That</i> was in the + summer; and all to be said for it now, is, that it couldn't be helped: + couldn't! +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon asked of 'Saul.' (By the way, you never answered about the + blue lilies.) He asked of 'Saul' and whether it would be finished in + the new number. He hangs on the music of your David. Did you read in + the <i>Athenæum</i> how Jules Janin—no, how the critic on Jules Janin (was + it the critic? was it Jules Janin? the glorious confusion is gaining + on me I think) has magnificently confounded places and persons in + Robert Southey's urn by the Adriatic and devoted friendship for Lord + Byron? And immediately the English observer of the phenomenon, after + moralizing a little on the crass ignorance of Frenchmen in respect to + our literature, goes on to write like an ignoramus himself, on Mme. + Charles Reybaud, encouraging that pure budding novelist, who is in + fact a hack writer of romances third and fourth rate, of questionable + purity enough, too. It does certainly appear wonderful that we should + not sufficiently stand abreast here in Europe, to justify and + necessitate the establishment of an European review—journal + rather—(the 'Foreign Review,' so called, touching only the summits of + the hills) a journal which might be on a level with the intelligent + readers of all the countries of Europe, and take all the rising + reputations of each, with the national light on them as they rise, + into observation and judgment. If nobody can do this, it is a pity I + think to do so much less—both in France and England—to snatch up a + French book from over the Channel as ever and anon they do in the + <i>Athenæum</i>, and say something prodigiously absurd of it, till people + cry out 'oh oh' as in the House of Commons. +</p> +<p> + Oh—oh—and how wise I am to-day, as if I were a critic myself! + Yesterday I was foolish instead—for I couldn't get out of my head all + the evening how you said that you would come 'to see a candle held up + at the window.' Well! but I do not mean to love you any more just + now—so I tell you plainly. Certainly I will not. I love you already + too much perhaps. I feel like the turning Dervishes turning in the sun + when you say such words to me—and I <i>never shall</i> love you any + 'less,' because it is too much to be made less of. +</p> +<p> + And you write to-morrow? and will tell me how you are? honestly will + tell me? May God bless you, most dear! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">I am yours—'Tota tua est'</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + How will the love my heart is full of for you, let me be silent? + Insufficient speech is better than no speech, in one regard—the + speaker had <i>tried</i> words, and if they fail, hereafter he needs not + reflect that he did not even try—so with me now, that loving you, Ba, + with all my heart and soul, all my senses being lost in one wide + wondering gratitude and veneration, I press close to you to say so, in + this imperfect way, my dear dearest beloved! Why do you not help me, + rather than take my words, my proper word, from me and call them + yours, when yours they are not? You said lately love of you 'made you + humble'—just as if to hinder <i>me</i> from saying that earnest + truth!—entirely true it is, as I feel ever more convincingly. You do + not choose to understand it should be so, nor do I much care, for the + one thing you must believe, must resolve to believe in its length and + breadth, is that I do love you and live only in the love of you. +</p> +<p> + I will rest on the confidence that you do so believe! You <i>know</i> by + this that it is no shadowy image of you and <i>not</i> you, which having + attached myself to in the first instance, I afterward compelled my + fancy to see reproduced, so to speak, with tolerable exactness to the + original idea, in you, the dearest real <i>you</i> I am blessed with—you + <i>know</i> what the eyes are to me, and the lips and the hair. And I, for + my part, know <i>now</i>, while fresh from seeing you, certainly <i>know</i>, + whatever I may have said a short time since, that <i>you</i> will go on to + the end, that the arm round me will not let me go,—over such a blind + abyss—I refuse to think, to fancy, <i>towards</i> what it would be to + loose you now! So I give my life, my soul into your hand—the giving + is a mere form too, it is yours, ever yours from the first—but ever + as I see you, sit with you, and come away to think over it all, I find + more that seems mine to give; you give me more life and it goes back + to you. +</p> +<p> + I shall hear from you to-morrow—then, I will go out early and get + done with some calls, in the joy and consciousness of what waits me, + and when I return I will write a few words. Are these letters, these + merest attempts at getting to talk with you through the distance—yet + always with the consolation of feeling that you will know all, + interpret all and forgive it and put it right—can such things be + cared for, expected, as you say? Then, Ba, my life <i>must</i> be better + ... with the closeness to help, and the 'finding out the way' for + which love was always noted. If you begin making in fancy a lover to + your mind, I am lost at once—but the one quality of <i>affection</i> for + you, which would sooner or later have to be placed on his list of + component graces; <i>that</i> I will dare start supply—the entire love you + could dream of <i>is</i> here. You think you see some of the other + adornments, and only too many; and you will see plainer one day, but + with that I do not concern myself—you shall admire the true + heroes—but me you shall love for the love's sake. Let me kiss you, + you, my dearest, dearest—God bless you ever— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 16, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Indeed I would, dearest Ba, go with entire gladness and pride to see a + light that came from your room—why should that surprise you? Well, + you will <i>know</i> one day. +</p> +<p> + We understand each other too about the sofas and gilding—oh, I know + you, my own sweetest! For me, if I had set those matters to heart, I + should have turned into the obvious way of getting them—not <i>out</i> of + it, as I did resolutely from the beginning. All I meant was, to + express a very natural feeling—if one could give you diamonds for + flowers, and if you liked diamonds,—then, indeed! As it is, wherever + we are found shall be, if you please, 'For the love's sake found + therein—sweetest <i>house</i> was ever seen!' +</p> +<p> + Mr. Kenyon must be merciful. Lilies are of all colours in + Palestine—one sort is particularized as <i>white</i> with a dark blue spot + and streak—the water lily, lotos, which I think I meant, is <i>blue</i> + altogether. +</p> +<p> + I have walked this morning to town and back—I feel much better, + 'honestly'! The head better—the spirits rising—as how should they + not, when <i>you</i> think all will go well in the end, when you write to + me that you go down-stairs and are stronger—and when the rest is + written? +</p> +<p> + Not more now, dearest, for time is pressing, but you will answer + this,—the love that is not here,—not the idle words, and I will + reply to-morrow. Thursday is so far away yet! +</p> +<p> + Bless you, my very own, only dearest! +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Monday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 17, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest, you are dearest always! Talk of Sirens, ... there must be + some masculine ones 'rari nantes,' I fancy, (though we may not find + them in unquestionable authorities like your Ælian!) to justify this + voice I hear. Ah, how you speak, with that pretension, too, to + dumbness! What should people be made of, in order to bear such words, + do you think? Will all the wax from all the altar-candles in the + Sistine Chapel, keep the piercing danger from their ears? Being tied + up a good deal tighter than Ulysses did not save <i>me</i>. Dearest + dearest: I laugh, you see, as usual, not to cry! But deep down, deeper + than the Sirens go, deep underneath the tides, <i>there</i>, I bless and + love you with the voice that makes no sound. +</p> +<p> + Other human creatures (how often I do think it to myself!) have their + good things scattered over their lives, sown here and sown there, down + the slopes, and by the waysides. But with me ... I have mine all + poured down on one spot in the midst of the sands!—if you knew what I + feel at moments, and at half-hours, when I give myself up to the + feeling freely and take no thought of red eyes. A woman once was + killed with gifts, crushed with the weight of golden bracelets thrown + at her: and, knowing myself, I have wondered more than a little, how + it was that I could <i>bear</i> this strange and unused gladness, without + sinking as the emotion rose. Only I was incredulous at first, and the + day broke slowly ... and the gifts fell like the rain ... softly; and + God gives strength, by His providence, for sustaining blessings as + well as stripes. Dearest— +</p> +<p> + For the rest I understand you perfectly—perfectly. It was simply to + your <i>thoughts</i>, that I replied ... and that you need not say to + yourself any more, as you did once to me when you brought me flowers, + that you wished they were diamonds. It was simply to prevent the + accident of such a <i>thought</i>, that I spoke out mine. You would not + wish accidentally that you had a double-barrelled gun to give me, or a + cardinal's hat, or a snuff box, and I meant to say that you <i>might as + well</i>—as diamonds and satin sofas à la Chorley. Thoughts are + something, and <i>your</i> thoughts are something more. To be sure they + are! +</p> +<p> + You are better you say, which makes me happy of course. And you will + not make the 'better' worse again by doing wrong things—<i>that</i> is my + petition. It was the excess of goodness to write those two letters for + me in one day, and I thank you, thank you. Beloved, when you write, + <i>let</i> it be, if you choose, ever so few lines. Do not suffer me (for + my own sake) to tire you, because two lines or three bring <i>you</i> to me + ... remember ... just as a longer letter would. +</p> +<p> + But where, pray, did I say, and when, that 'everything would end + well?' Was <i>that</i> in the dream, when we two met on the stairs? I did + not really say so I think. And 'well' is how you understand it. If you + jump out of the window you succeed in getting to the ground, somehow, + dead or alive ... but whether <i>that</i> means 'ending well,' depends on + your way of considering matters. I am seriously of opinion + nevertheless, that if 'the arm,' you talk of, <i>drops</i>, it will not be + for weariness nor even for weakness, but because it is cut off at the + shoulder. <i>I</i> will not fail to you,—may God so deal with me, so bless + me, so leave me, as I live only for you and <i>shall</i>. Do you doubt + <i>that</i>, my only beloved! Ah, you know well—<i>too well</i>, people would + say ... but I do not think it 'too well' myself, ... knowing <i>you</i>. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + Here is a gossip which Mr. Kenyon brought me on Sunday—disbelieving + it himself, he asseverated, though Lady Chantrey said it 'with + authority,'—that Mr. Harness had offered his hand heart and + ecclesiastical dignities to Miss Burdett Coutts. It is Lady Chantrey's + and Mr. Kenyon's <i>secret</i>, remember. +</p> +<p> + And ... will you tell me? How can a man spend four or five successive + months on the sea, most cheaply—at the least pecuniary expense, I + mean? Because Miss Mitford's friend Mr. Buckingham is ordered by his + medical adviser to complete his cure by these means; and he is not + rich. Could he go with sufficient comfort by a merchant's vessel to + the Mediterranean ... and might he drift about among the Greek + islands? +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday. +</p> +<p> + 'Out of window' would be well, as I see the leap, if it ended (<i>so far + as I am concerned</i>) in the worst way imaginable—I would I 'run the + risk' (Ba's other word) rationally, deliberately,—knowing what the + ordinary law of chances in this world justifies in such a case; and if + the result after all <i>was</i> unfortunate, it would be far easier to + undergo the extremest penalty with so little to reproach myself + for,—than to put aside the adventure,—waive the wondrous probability + of such best fortune, in a fear of the barest possibility of an + adverse event, and so go to my grave, Walter the Penniless, with an + eternal recollection that Miss Burdett Coutts once offered to wager + sundry millions with me that she could throw double-sixes a dozen + times running—which wager I wisely refused to accept because it was + not written in the stars that such a sequence might never be. I had + rather, rather a thousand-fold lose my paltry stake, and be the one + recorded victim to such an unexampled unluckiness that half a dozen + mad comets, suns gone wrong, and lunatic moons must have come + laboriously into conjunction for my special sake to bring it to pass, + which were no slight honour, properly considered!—And this is <i>my</i> + way of laughing, dearest Ba, when the excess of belief in you, and + happiness with you, runs over and froths if it don't + sparkle—underneath is a deep, a sea not to be moved. But chance, + chance! there is <i>no</i> chance here! I <i>have</i> gained enough for my life, + I can only put in peril the gaining more than enough. You shall change + altogether my dear, dearest love, and I will be happy to the last + minute on what I can remember of this past year—I <i>could</i> do that. + <i>Now</i>, jump with me out, Ba! If you feared for yourself—all would be + different, sadly different—But saying what you do say, promising 'the + strength of arm'—do not wonder that I call it an assurance of all + being 'well'! All is <i>best</i>, as you promise—dear, darling Ba!—and I + say, in my degree, with all the energy of my nature, <i>as you say</i>, + promise as you promise—only meaning a worship of you that is solely + fit for me, fit by position—are not you my 'mistress?' Come, some + good out of those old conventions, in which you lost faith after the + Bower's disappearance, (it was carried by the singing angels, like the + house at Loretto, to the Siren's isle where we shall find it preserved + in a beauty 'very rare and absolute')—is it not right you should be + my Lady, my Queen? and you are, and ever must be, dear Ba. Because I + am suffered to kiss the lips, shall I ever refuse to embrace the feet? + and kiss lips, and embrace feet, love you <i>wholly</i>, my Ba! May God + bless you— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your own,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<p> + It would be easy for Mr. Buckingham to find a Merchant-ship bound for + some Mediterranean port, after a week or two in harbour, to another + and perhaps a third—Naples, Palermo, Syra, Constantinople, and so on. + The expense would be very trifling, but the want of comfort <i>enormous</i> + for an invalid—the one advantage is the solitariness of the <i>one</i> + passenger among all those rough new creatures. <i>I</i> like it much, and + soon get deep into their friendship, but another has other ways of + viewing matters. No one article provided by the ship in the way of + provisions can anybody touch. Mr. B. must lay in his own stock, and + the horrors of dirt and men's ministry are portentous, yet by a little + arrangement beforehand much might be done. Still, I only know my own + powers of endurance, and counsel nobody to gain my experience. On the + other hand, were all to do again, I had rather have seen Venice <i>so</i>, + with the five or six weeks' absolute rest of the mind's eyes, than any + other imaginable way,—except Balloon-travelling. +</p> +<p> + Do you think they meant Landor's 'Count Julian'—the 'subject of his + tragedy' sure enough,—and that <i>he</i> was the friend of Southey? So it + struck me— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 18, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah well—we shall see. Only remember that it is not my fault if I + throw the double sixes, and if you, on [<i>some sun-shiny</i> day, (a day + too late to help yourself) stand face to face with a milkwhite + unicorn.]<b><a href="#note-26">26</a></b> Ah—do not be angry. It is ungrateful of me to write + so—I put a line through it to prove I have a conscience after all. I + know that you love me, and I know it so well that I was reproaching + myself severely not long ago, for seeming to love your love more than + you. Let me tell you how I proved <i>that</i>, or seemed. For ever so long, + you remember, I have been talking finely about giving you up for your + good and so on. Which was sincere as far as the words went—but oh, + the hypocrisy of our souls!—of mine, for instance! 'I would give you + up for your good'—<i>but</i> when I pressed upon myself the question + whether (if I had the power) I would consent to make you willing to be + given up, by throwing away your love into the river, in a ring like + Charlemagne's, ... why I found directly that I would throw myself + there sooner. I could not do it in fact—I shrank from the test. A + very pitiful virtue of generosity, is your Ba's! Still, it is not + possible, I think, that she should '<i>love your love more than you</i>.' + There must be a mistake in the calculation somewhere—a figure dropt. + It would be too bad for her! +</p> +<p> + Your account of your merchantmen, though with Venice in the distance, + will scarcely be attractive to a confirmed invalid, I fear—and yet + the steamers will be found expensive beyond his means. The + sugar-vessels, which I hear most about, give out an insufferable smell + and steam—let us talk of it a little on Thursday. On Monday I forgot. +</p> +<p> + For Landor's 'Julian,' oh no, I cannot fancy it to be probable that + those Parisians should know anything of Landor, even by a mistake. Do + you not suppose that the play is founded (confounded) on Shelley's + poem, as the French use materials ... by distraction, into confusion? + The 'urn by the Adriatic' (which all the French know how to turn + upside down) fixes the reference to Shelley—does it not? +</p> +<p> + Not a word of the head—what does <i>that</i> mean, I wonder. I have not + been down-stairs to-day—the wind is too cold—but you have walked? + ... there was no excuse for you. God bless you, ever dearest. It is my + last word till Thursday's first. A fine queen you have, by the way!—a + queen Log, whom you had better leave in the bushes! Witness our + hand.... +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba—Regina</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 18, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Indeed, dearest, you shall not have <i>last word</i> as you think,—all the + 'risk' shall not be mine, neither; how can I, in the event, throw + ambs-ace (is not that the old word?) and not peril <i>your</i> stakes too, + when once we have common stock and are partners? When I see the + unicorn and grieve proportionately, do you mean to say you are not + going to grieve too, for my sake? And if so—why, <i>you</i> clearly run + exactly the same risk,—<i>must</i>,—unless you mean to rejoice in my + sorrow! So your chance is my chance; my success your success, you say, + and my failure, your failure, will you not say? You see, you see, Ba, + my own—own! What do you think frightened me in your letter for a + second or two? You write 'Let us talk on Thursday ... Monday I + forgot'—which I read,—'no, not on Thursday—I had forgotten! It is + to be <i>Monday</i> when we meet next'!—whereat +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><p> ... as a goose<br> +In death contracts his talons close, +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">as Hudibras sings—I clutched the letter convulsively—till relief + came. +</p> +<p> + So till to-morrow—my all-beloved! Bless you. I am rather hazy in the + head as Archer Gurney will find in due season—(he comes, I told + you)—but all the morning I have been going for once and for ever + through the 'Tragedy,' and it is <i>done</i>—(done <i>for</i>). Perhaps I may + bring it to-morrow—if my sister can copy all; I cut out a huge kind + of sermon from the middle and reserve it for a better time—still it + is very long; so long! So, if I ask, may I have 'Luria' back to + morrow? So shall printing begin, and headache end—and 'no more for + the present from your loving' +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Friday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 20, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have + been here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly 'Go + away that I may write.' Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by + a whole half-hour or three quarters—the stars are against us. He is + coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and + clear—and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a + good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so + complimentary to me—I will tell you. The writer doesn't see anything + 'in Browning and Turner,' she confesses—'<i>may</i> perhaps with time and + study,' but for the present sees nothing,—only has wide-open eyes of + admiration for E.B.B. ... now isn't it satisfactory to <i>me</i>? Do you + understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be + praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare?—to be found on + the level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia, + ten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ... + except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I? +</p> +<p> + Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the + 'risks' I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike + simplicity ('gods and bulls,' dearest!) as you made show of yesterday? + If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to + play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of 'my stakes?' and + would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as + partners, that we ran 'equal risks'? I trow not—and so do <i>you</i> ... + when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and + noir into 'one red' of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the + point of happiness when you knew me first?—and if now I lose (as I + certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have + given me, why still I am your debtor for <i>the gift</i> ... now see! Yet + to bring you down into my ashes ... <i>that</i> has been so intolerable a + possibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run <i>more</i> risk than + you, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself + again if you were unhappy. 'What had <i>I</i> to do,' I should think, 'with + touching your life?' And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that + I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice—which is the + uttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any + more—not even for <i>you</i>! <i>You</i>, for <i>you</i> ... is all I can! +</p> +<p> + Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the + headache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon. I do, do + beseech you to spare yourself, and let 'Luria' go as he is, and above + all things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them + in those notes. Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to + say, 'Now I will be well again.' Ever dearest, care for me in + yourself—say how you are.... I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged + and weak rather with the cold ... and look at your flowers for courage + and an assurance that the summer is within hearing. May God bless you + ... blessing <i>us</i>, beloved! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Your own</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Poe has sent me his poems and tales—so now I must write to thank + him for his dedication. Just now I have the book. As to Mr. + Buckingham, he will go, Constantinople and back, before we talk of + him. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Saturday Morning.<br> +[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Dearest,—it just strikes me that I <i>might</i> by some chance be kept in + town this morning—(having to go to Milnes' breakfast there)—so as + not to find the note I venture to expect, in time for an answer by our + last post to-night. But I will try—this only is a precaution against + the possibility. Dear, dear Ba! I cannot thank you, know not how to + thank you for the notes! I adopt every one, of course, not as Ba's + notes but as Miss Barrett's, not as Miss Barrett's but as anybody's, + everybody's—such incontestable improvements they suggest. When shall + I tell you more ... on Monday or Tuesday? <i>That</i> I <i>must</i> + know—because you appointed Monday, 'if nothing happened—' and Mr. K. + happened—can you let me hear by our early post to-morrow—as on + Monday I am to be with Moxon early, you know—and no letters arrive + before 11-1/2 or 12. I was not very well yesterday, but to-day am much + better—and you,—I say how <i>I</i> am precisely to have a double right to + know <i>all</i> about you, dearest, in this snow and cold! How do you bear + it? And Mr. K. spoke of '<i>that</i> being your worst day.' Oh, dear + dearest Ba, remember how I live in you—on the hopes, with the memory + of you. Bless you ever! +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + I do not understand how my letters limp so instead of flying as they + ought with the feathers I give them, and how you did not receive last + night, nor even early this morning, what left me at two o'clock + yesterday. But I understand <i>now</i> the not hearing from you—you were + not well. Not well, not well ... <i>that</i> is always 'happening' at + least. And Mr. Moxon, who is to have his first sheet, whether you are + well or ill! It is wrong ... yes, very wrong—and if one point of + wrongness is touched, we shall not easily get right again—as I think + mournfully, feeling confident (call me Cassandra, but I cannot jest + about it) feeling certain that it will end (the means being so + persisted in) by some serious illness—serious sorrow,—on yours and + my part. +</p> +<p> + As to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again on Sunday—in which + case, Monday will be clear. If he should not come on Sunday, he will + or may on Monday,—yet—oh, in every case, perhaps you can come on + Monday—there will be no time to let you know of Mr. Kenyon—and + <i>probably</i> we shall be safe, and your being in town seems to fix the + day. For myself I am well enough, and the wind has changed, which will + make me better—this cold weather oppresses and weakens me, but it is + close to April and can't last and won't last—it is warmer already. + Beware of the notes! They are not Ba's—except for the insolence, nor + EBB's—because of the carelessness. If I had known, moreover, that you + were going to Moxon's on Monday, they should have gone to the fire + rather than provoked you into superfluous work for the short interval. + Just so much are they despised of both EBB and Ba. +</p> +<p> + I am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because you were not + well, and you <i>must never</i> write when you are not well. But if you had + been quite well, should I have heard?—<i>I doubt it</i>. You meant me to + hear from you only once, from Thursday to Monday. Is it not the truth + now that you hate writing to me? +</p> +<p> + The <i>Athenæum</i> takes up the 'Tales from Boccaccio' as if they were + worth it, and imputes in an underground way the authorship to the + members of the 'coterie' so called—do you observe <i>that</i>? There is an + implication that persons named in the poem wrote the poem themselves. + And upon <i>whom</i> does the critic mean to fix the song of 'Constancy' + ... the song which is 'not to puzzle anybody' who knows the tunes of + the song-writers! The perfection of commonplace it seems to me. It + might have been written by the 'poet Bunn.' Don't you think so? +</p> +<p> + While I write this you are in town, but you will not read it till + Sunday unless I am more fortunate than usual. On Monday then! And no + word before? No—I shall be sure not to hear to-night. Now do try not + to suffer through 'Luria.' Let Mr. Moxon wait a week rather. There is + time enough. +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Sunday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 23, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Oh, my Ba—how you shall hear of this to-morrow—that is all: <i>I</i> hate + writing? See when presently I <i>only</i> write to you daily, hourly if you + let me? Just this <i>now</i>—I will be with you to-morrow in any case—I + can go away <i>at once</i>, if need be, or stay—if you like you can stop + me by sending a note for me <i>to Moxon's before</i> 10 o'clock—if + anything calls for such a measure. +</p> +<p> + Now briefly,—I am unwell and entirely irritated with this sad + 'Luria'—I thought it a failure at first, I find it infinitely worse + than I thought—it is a pure exercise of <i>cleverness</i>, even where most + successful; clever attempted reproduction of what was conceived by + another faculty, and foolishly let pass away. If I go on, even hurry + the more to get on, with the printing,—it is to throw out and away + from me the irritating obstruction once and forever. I have corrected + it, cut it down, and it may stand and pledge me to doing better + hereafter. I say, too, in excuse to myself, <i>unlike</i> the woman at her + spinning-wheel, 'He thought of his <i>flax</i> on the whole far more than + of his singing'—more of his life's sustainment, of dear, dear Ba he + hates writing to, than of these wooden figures—no wonder all is as it + is? +</p> +<p> + Here is a pure piece of the old Chorley leaven for you, just as it + reappears ever and anon and throws one back on the mistrust all but + abandoned! Chorley <i>knows</i> I have not seen that Powell for nearly + fifteen months—that I never heard of the book till it reached me in a + blank cover—that I never contributed a line or word to it directly or + indirectly—and I should think he <i>also knows</i> that all the sham + learning, notes &c., all that saves the book from the deepest deep of + contempt, was contributed by Heraud (<i>a regular critic in the + 'Athenæum'</i>), who received his pay for the same: he knows I never + spoke in my life to 'Jones or Stephens'—that there is no 'coterie' of + which I can, by any extension of the word, form a part—that I am in + this case at the mercy of a wretched creature who to get into my + favour again (to speak the plain truth) put in the gross, disgusting + flattery in the notes—yet Chorley, knowing this, none so well, and + what the writer's end is—(to have it supposed I, and the others + named—Talfourd, for instance—<SPAN class="sc-ex">are</span> his friends and helpers)—he + condescends to <i>further</i> it by such a notice, written with that + observable and characteristic duplicity, that to poor gross stupid + Powell it shall look like an admiring 'Oh, fie—<i>so</i> clever but <i>so</i> + wicked'!—a kind of <i>D'Orsay's</i> praise—while to the rest of his + readers, a few depreciatory epithets—slight sneers convey his real + sentiments, he trusts! And this he does, just because Powell buys an + article of him once a quarter and would <i>expect</i> notice. I think I + hear Chorley—'You know, I <i>cannot</i> praise such a book—it <i>is</i> too + bad'—as if, as if—oh, it makes one sicker than having written + 'Luria,' there's one comfort! I shall call on Chorley and ask for + <i>his</i> account of the matter. Meantime nobody will read his foolish + notice without believing as he and Powell desire! Bless you, my own + Ba—to-morrow makes amends to R.B. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday.<br> +[Post-mark, March 24, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + How ungrateful I was to your flowers yesterday, never looking at them + nor praising them till they were put away, and yourself gone away—and + <i>that</i> was <i>your</i> fault, be it remembered, because you began to tell + me of the good news from Moxon's, and, in the joy of it, I missed the + flowers ... for the nonce, you know. Afterward they had their due, and + all the more that you were not there. My first business when you are + out of the room and the house, and the street perhaps, is to arrange + the flowers and to gather out of them all the thoughts you leave + between the leaves and at the end of the stalks. And shall I tell you + what happened, not yesterday, but the Thursday before? no, it was the + Friday morning, when I found, or rather Wilson found and held up from + my chair, a bunch of dead blue violets. Quite dead they seemed! You + had dropped them and I had sate on them, and where we murdered them + they had lain, poor things, all the night through. And Wilson thought + it the vainest of labours when she saw me set about reviving them, + cutting the stalks afresh, and dipping them head and ears into + water—but then she did not know how you, and I, and ours, live under + a miraculous dispensation, and could only simply be astonished when + they took to blowing again as if they never had wanted the dew of the + garden, ... yes, and when at last they outlived all the prosperity of + the contemporary white violets which flourished in water from the + beginning, and were free from the disadvantage of having been sate + upon. Now you shall thank me for this letter, it is at once so amusing + and instructive. After all, too, it teaches you what the great events + of my life are, not that the resuscitation of your violets would not + really be a great event to me, even if I led the life of a pirate, + between fire and sea, otherwise. But take <i>you</i> away ... out of my + life!—and what remains? The only greenness I used to have (before you + brought your flowers) was as the grass growing in deserted streets, + ... which brings a proof, in every increase, of the extending + desolation. +</p> +<p> + Dearest, I persist in thinking that you ought not to be too disdainful + to explain your meaning in the Pomegranates. Surely you might say in a + word or two that, your title having been doubted about (to your + surprise, you <i>might</i> say!), you refer the doubters to the Jewish + priest's robe, and the Rabbinical gloss ... for I suppose it is a + gloss on the robe ... do you not think so? Consider that Mr. Kenyon + and I may fairly represent the average intelligence of your + readers,—and that <i>he</i> was altogether in the clouds as to your + meaning ... had not the most distant notion of it,—while I, taking + hold of the priest's garment, missed the Rabbins and the distinctive + significance, as completely as he did. Then for Vasari, it is not the + handbook of the whole world, however it may be Mrs. Jameson's. Now why + should you be too proud to teach such persons as only desire to be + taught? I persist—I shall teaze you. +</p> +<p> + This morning my brothers have been saying ... 'Ah you had Mr. Browning + with you yesterday, I see by the flowers,' ... just as if they said 'I + see queen Mab has been with you.' Then Stormie took the opportunity of + swearing to me by all his gods that your name was mentioned lately in + the House of Commons—<i>is</i> that true? or untrue? He forgot to tell me + at the time, he says,—and you were named with others and in relation + to copyright matters. <i>Is</i> it true? +</p> +<p> + Mr. Hornblower Gill is the author of a Hymn to Passion week, and wrote + to me as the 'glorifier of pain!' to remind me that the best glory of + a soul is shown in the joy of it, and that all chief poets except + Dante have seen, felt, and written it so. Thus and therefore was + matured his purpose of writing an 'ode to joy,' as I told you. The man + seems to have very good thoughts, ... but he writes like a colder + Cowley still ... no impulse, no heat for fusing ... no inspiration, in + fact. Though I have scarcely done more than glance at his 'Passion + week,' and have little right to give an opinion. +</p> +<p> + If you have killed Luria as you helped to kill my violets, what shall + I say, do you fancy? Well—we shall see! Do not kill yourself, + beloved, in any case! The <span title="iostephanoi Mousai">ιοστεφανοι + +Μουσαι</span> had better die + themselves first! Ah—what am I writing? What nonsense? I mean, in + deep earnest, the deepest, that you should take care and exercise, and + not be vexed for Luria's sake—Luria will have his triumph presently! + May God bless you—prays your own +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>R.B. to E.B.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Afternoon.<br> +[Post-mark, March 24, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + My own dearest, if you <i>do</i>—(for I confess to nothing of the kind), + but if you <i>should</i> detect an unwillingness to write at certain times, + what would that prove,—I mean, what that one need shrink from + avowing? If I never had you before me except when writing letters to + you—then! Why, we do not even <i>talk</i> much now! witness Mr. Buckingham + and his voyage that ought to have been discussed!—Oh, how coldly I + should write,—how the bleak-looking paper would seem unpropitious to + carry my feeling—if all had to begin and try to find words <i>this</i> + way! +</p> +<p> + Now, this morning I have been out—to town and back—and for all the + walking my head aches—and I have the conviction that presently when I + resign myself to think of you wholly, with only the pretext,—the + make-believe of occupation, in the shape of some book to turn over the + leaves of,—I shall see you and soon be well; so soon! You must know, + there is a chair (one of the kind called gond<i>ó</i>la-chairs by + upholsterers—with an emphasized o)—which occupies the precise place, + stands just in the same relation to this chair I sit on now, that + yours stands in and occupies—to the left of the fire: and, how often, + how <i>always</i> I turn in the dusk and <i>see</i> the dearest real Ba with me. +</p> +<p> + How entirely kind to take that trouble, give those sittings for me! Do + you think the kindness has missed its due effect? <i>No, no</i>, I am + glad,—(<i>knowing what I</i> now <i>know</i>,—what you meant <i>should be</i>, and + did all in your power to prevent) that I have <i>not</i> received the + picture, if anything short of an adequate likeness. 'Nil nisi—te!' + But I have set my heart on <i>seeing</i> it—will you remember next time, + next Saturday? +</p> +<p> + I will leave off now. To-morrow, dearest, only dearest Ba, I will + write a longer letter—the clock stops it this afternoon—it is later + than I thought, and our poor crazy post! This morning, hoping against + hope, I ran to meet our postman coming meditatively up the lane—with + <i>a</i> letter, indeed!—but Ba's will come to-night—and I will be happy, + already <i>am</i> happy, expecting it. Bless you, my own love, +</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Ever your— +</p> +<br> +<h3><i>E.B.B. to R.B.</i> </h3> +<p style="text-align: right">Tuesday Evening.<br> +[Post-mark, March 25, 1846.] +</p> +<p> + Ah; if I '<i>do</i>' ... if I '<i>should</i>' ... if I <i>shall</i> ... if I <i>will</i> + ... if I <i>must</i> ... what can all the 'ifs' prove, but a most + hypothetical state of the conscience? And in brief, I beg you to + stand convinced of one thing, that whenever the 'certain time' comes + for to 'hate writing to me' confessedly, 'avowedly,' (oh what words!) + <i>I shall not like it at all</i>—not for all the explanations ... and the + sights in gondola chairs, which the person seen is none the better + for! The <span title="eidôlon">ειδωλον</span> sits by the fire—the real Ba is cold at + heart through wanting her letter. And that's the doctrine to be + preached now, ... is it? I 'shrink,' shrink from it. That's your + word!—and mine! Dearest, I began by half a jest and end by + half-gravity, which is the fault of your doctrine and not of me I + think. Yet it is ungrateful to be grave, when practically you are good + and just about the letters, and generous too sometimes, and I could + not bear the idea of obliging you to write to me, even once ... + when.... Now do not fancy that I do not understand. I understand + perfectly, on the contrary. Only do <i>you</i> try not to dislike writing + when you write, or not to write when you dislike it ... <i>that</i>, I ask + of you, dear dearest—and forgive me for all this over-writing and + teazing and vexing which is foolish and womanish in the bad sense. It + is a way of meeting, ... the meeting in letters, ... and next to + receiving a letter from you, I like to write one to you ... and, so, + revolt from thinking it lawful for you to dislike.... Well! the + Goddess of Dulness herself couldn't have written <i>this</i> better, + anyway, nor more characteristically. +</p> +<p> + I will tell you how it is. You have spoilt me just as I have spoilt + Flush. Flush looks at me sometimes with reproachful eyes 'a fendre le + coeur,' because I refuse to give him my fur cuffs to tear to pieces. + And as for myself, I confess to being more than half jealous of the + <span title="eidôlon">ειδωλον</span> in the gondola chair, who isn't the real Ba after + all, and yet is set up there to do away with the necessity 'at certain + times' of writing to her. Which is worse than Flush. For Flush, though + he began by shivering with rage and barking and howling and gnashing + his teeth at the brown dog in the glass, has learnt by experience what + that image means, ... and now contemplates it, serene in natural + philosophy. Most excellent sense, all this is!—and dauntlessly + 'delivered!' +</p> +<p> + Your head aches, dearest. Mr. Moxon will have done his worst, however, + presently, and then you will be a little better I do hope and + trust—and the proofs, in the meanwhile, will do somewhat less harm + than the manuscript. You will take heart again about 'Luria' ... which + I agree with you, is more diffuse ... that is, less close, than any of + your works, not diffuse in any bad sense, but round, copious, and + another proof of that wonderful variety of faculty which is so + striking in you, and which signalizes itself both in the thought and + in the medium of the thought. You will appreciate 'Luria' in time—or + others will do it for you. It is a noble work under every aspect. Dear + 'Luria'! Do you remember how you told me of 'Luria' last year, in one + of your early letters? Little I thought that ever, ever, I should feel + so, while 'Luria' went to be printed! A long trail of thoughts, like + the rack in the sky, follows his going. Can it be the same 'Luria,' I + think, that 'golden-hearted Luria,' whom you talked of to me, when you + complained of keeping 'wild company,' in the old dear letter? And I + have learnt since, that '<i>golden-hearted</i>' is not a word for him only, + or for him most. May God bless you, best and dearest! I am your own to + live and to die— +</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><SPAN class="sc-ex">Ba</span>. +</p> +<p> + <i>Say how you are.</i> I shall be down-stairs to-morrow if it keeps warm. +</p> +<p> + Miss Thomson wants me to translate the Hector and Andromache scene + from the 'Iliad' for her book; and I am going to try it. +</p> +<br> +<hr> +<br> +<center> + <b>END OF THE FIRST VOLUME </b></center> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London</i> +</p> + +<br> +<hr> +<br> + +<h3> + FOOTNOTES +</h3> +<a name="note-1"><!--Note--></a> +<p><b><u>1</u></b> With this and the following letter the addresses on the + envelopes are given; for all subsequent letters the addresses are the + same. The correspondence passed through the post. +</p> +<a name="note-2"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>2</u></b> 'Not yet reached the prelude' (Aesch. <i>Prom.</i> 741). +</p> +<a name="note-3"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>3</u></b> The following is the version of the passage in Mrs. + Browning's later translation of the 'Prometheus' (II. 247-251 of the + original): +</p> +<p><i>Prom.</i> I did restrain besides<br> + +My mortals from premeditating death.</p> +<p> + <i>Cho.</i> How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of death? +</p> +<p> + <i>Prom.</i> I set blind hopes to inhabit in their house. +</p> +<p> + <i>Cho.</i> By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well.</p> +<a name="note-4"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>4</u></b> Aeschylus, <i>Prometheus</i>, 228ff.: +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><p> When at first<br> +He filled his father's throne, he instantly<br> +Made various gifts of glory to the gods.' +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> +<a name="note-5"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>5</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 439, 440: +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">'For see—their honours to these new-made gods,<br> +What other gave but I?' +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> +<a name="note-6"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>6</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 231, 232: +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><p> 'Alone of men,<br> +Of miserable men, he took no count.'</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> +<a name="note-7"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>7</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 235: 'But I dared it.' +</p> +<a name="note-8"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>8</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 11: 'Leave off his old trick of loving man.' +</p> +<a name="note-9"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>9</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 443, 444: +</p> +<blockquote><blockquote><p> 'Being fools before,<br> +I made them wise and true in aim of soul.' +</p> +</blockquote></blockquote><a name="note-10"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>10</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 250: 'Blind hopes.' +</p> +<a name="note-11"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>11</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 251: 'A great benefit.' +</p> +<a name="note-12"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>12</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 92: 'Behold what I suffer.' +</p> +<a name="note-13"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>13</u></b> <i>Ib.</i> 1093: 'Dost see how I suffer this wrong?' +</p> +<a name="note-14"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>14</u></b> A rough sketch follows in the original. +</p> +<a name="note-15"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>15</u></b> Aeschylus, <i>Agamemnon</i> 36: 'An ox hath trodden on my + tongue'—a Greek proverb implying silence. +</p> +<a name="note-16"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>16</u></b> Envelope endorsed by Robert Browning:—Tuesday, May 20, + 1845, 3-4-1/2 p.m. +</p> +<a name="note-17"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>17</u></b> 'What have I to do with thee?' +</p> +<a name="note-18"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>18</u></b> ... me on Tuesday, or Wednesday? if on Tuesday, I shall + come by the three o'clock train; if on Wednesday, <i>early</i> in the + morning, as I shall be anxious to secure rooms ... so that your Uncle + and Arabel may come up on Thursday. +</p> +<a name="note-19"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>19</u></b> Aeschylus, <i>Prometheus</i> II.: 'trick of loving men,' see + <a href="#note-8">note 3</a>, on <a href="#39">p. 39</a> above. [Transcriber's + note: note 3 has been renumbered note 8 in this e-book.] +</p> +<a name="note-20"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>20</u></b> 'R. Benjamin of Tudela' added in Robert Browning's + handwriting. +</p> +<a name="note-21"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>21</u></b> Mr. Browning's letter is written in an unusually bold + hand. +</p> +<a name="note-22"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>22</u></b> Envelope endorsed by E.B.B. 'hair.' +</p> +<a name="note-23"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>23</u></b> 'Purg.' v. 52 7. +</p> +<a name="note-24"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>24</u></b> The cutting enclosed is:—'A Few Rhymes for the Present + Christmas' by J. Purchas, Esq., B.A. It is headed by several + quotations, the first of which is signed 'Elizabeth B. Barrett:' +</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-indent: 0em">'This age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,<br> +Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.' +</p> +</blockquote><p> + This is followed by extracts from Pindar, 'Lear,' and the Hon. Mrs. + Norton. +</p> +<a name="note-25"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>25</u></b> Sprig of Hawthorn enclosed with letter. +</p> +<a name="note-26"><!--Note--></a> +<p> +<b><u>26</u></b> The words in brackets are struck out. +</p> +<br> +<br> +<br> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Robert Browning and +Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1 (of 2) 1845-1846, Edited by Robert Browning + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF BROWNING *** + +***** This file should be named 16182-h.htm or 16182-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/1/8/16182/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Linda Cantoni, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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