The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 37

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday Night.

[Post-mark, December 8, 1845.]

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 _something_ of you--not pretend indifference about you _now_ ... and from the impossibility of saying the _full_ 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--_there_ 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 _a qui de droit_--

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 _forgotten_ 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 _so_ from all you now see, which is nothing at all ... like the Chinese Air-plant! Do you understand this? And surely 'Ion' is a _very_, very beautiful and n.o.ble 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 _built up_ 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 _that me_, so to be behaved to, so to be honoured--though he should have all the good will! Ten years ago!

And ten years hence!

Always understand that you do _not_ take me as I was at the beginning ... with a crowd of loves to give to _something_ and so get rid of their pain and burden. I have _known_ 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 _can_ be surer of myself, and make you surer, on calm demonstrated grounds, than if I had a host of objects of admiration or ambition _yet_ 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 _presumable_ better ... not for the _experienced worst_.

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 _proved logically_ my own, best, extreme want, my life's end--YES; dearest! Bless you ever--

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Sunday.

[Post-mark, December 8, 1845.]

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 ... _five_, ... 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?

I am vexed by another thing which he tells _me_--vexed, if amused a little by the absurdity of it. I mean that absurd affair of the 'Autography'--now _isn't_ 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 _me_, 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 _you_ 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?

I took the opportunity of the letter to Mr. Mathews (talking of vanity ... _mine_!) 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 _verse_ 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 _you_ 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 _no_ 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 _you_?

_Monday._--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 n.o.ble 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 _not_ in him, this might have been 'predicated' of it as surely, I hold. Still, it is a n.o.ble work--and even if you over-praised it, (I did not read your letter, though you read mine, alas!) you, under the circ.u.mstances, would have been less n.o.ble 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.

I thought Mr. Kenyon would have come yesterday and that I might have something to tell you, of him at least.

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 _he knew perfectly that you had just left me_. My sisters told him down-stairs and he came into this room just before he set off on Sat.u.r.day, with a, ... '_So_ 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.

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 '_taste_,' but of sight and feeling.

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.

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.

May G.o.d bless and make you happy, as ... you will lose nothing if I say ... as I am yours--

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday Morning.

[Post-mark, December 9, 1845.]

Well, then, I am no longer sorry that I did _not_ read _either_ 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 _he_ indeed read them, or some of them, but holding the volume at a distance which defied my short-sighted eye--all _I_ saw was the _faint_ 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. _All_ I know of the notes, that _one_ 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 circ.u.mstance 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 _Examiner_ appeared, _every_ journal that thought worth while to allude to the poem at all, treated it with entire contempt ... beginning, I think, with the _Athenaeum_ which _then_ 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--Sh.e.l.ley'!--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 _his_ '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 _utter_--you remember the world's-wonder 'Ion' made,--that I was determined not to pa.s.s for the curious piece of neglected merit I really _was not_--and so!--

But, dearest, why should you leave your own especial sphere of doing me good for another than yours?

Does the sun rake and hoe about the garden as well as thine steadily over it? _Why_ 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 _only_ fit for such offices? Not that I _feel_, even, more bound to you for them--they have their weight, I _know_ ... but _what_ weight beside the divine gift of yourself? Do not, dear, dearest, care for making me known: _you_ know me!--and _they_ know so little, after all your endeavour, who are ignorant of what _you_ are to me--if you ... well, but that _will_ follow; if I do greater things one day--what shall they serve for, what range themselves under of right?--

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 _believe_ it was Mr. M.)--a proposition for reprinting--to which I a.s.sented of course--and there was an end to the matter.

And might I have stayed _till five_?--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 _have_ an invitation for Thursday which I had no intention of remembering (it admitted of such liberty)--but _now_....

Something I will _say_! 'Polka,' forsooth!--one lady whose _head_ 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.

So, _Thursday_,--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 _ring_ is gone? There surely _is_ something to forgive in me--for that shameful business--or I should not feel as I do in the matter: but you _did_ forgive me.

G.o.d bless my own, only love--ever--

Yours wholly

R.B.

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 _compartmented_, to have always about him, so that the _next such coin he picked_ 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.

_Parallel._ R.B. having found an unicorn....

Do you forgive these strips of paper? I could not wait to send for more--having exhausted my stock.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday Evening [Post-mark, December 10, 1845.]

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 _seemed_ to be past, when suddenly the knock brought the letter which deserves all this praising. If not 'kind' ...

then _kindest_ ... will that do better? Perhaps.

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 s.h.i.+eld 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 _you_ 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 _me_ ... _when_ you are happier forgetting. I say _that_ too.

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!--

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 _Athenaeum_, but can well believe that it said what you say. The _Athenaeum_ admires only what G.o.ds, 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 Sh.e.l.ley!--when if 'Paracelsus' was anything it was the expression of a new mind, as all might see--as _I_ saw, let me be proud to remember, and I was not overdazzled by 'Ion.'

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 's.h.i.+ning' ... s.h.i.+ning ... when there is not so much light in me as to do 'carpet work' by, why let anyone in the world, _except you_, tell me to s.h.i.+ne, 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.--