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The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012963140 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 AND 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 
 
 Volume I. 
 
'iyUr/ier/: cl 
 
 iini/nq^ 
 
 p.itilic?hRd by liiTpcriF.n 
 
THE LETTERS OF 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 AND 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 
 
 1845-1846 
 
 WITH PORTRAITS AND FACSIMILES 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 Vol. I. 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 1899 
 
3 <r c? /^ f£ 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothkrs. 
 
 All rights rtserved. 
 
 it {"• f ■■ ' 
 
NOTE 
 
 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 de- 
 cision of others after my death, but that would be evading a re- 
 sponsibility which I feel that I ought to accept. 
 
 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 con- 
 secutive order and numbered on the envelope by his own hand. 
 
 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 !' 
 
 A few of the letters are of little or no interest, but their omis- 
 sion would have saved only a few pages, and I think it well that 
 the correspondence should be given in its entirety. 
 
 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
ADVEETISEMENT 
 
 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 punctvMtion, with its 
 characteristic dots and dashes, has for the most part been preserved. 
 The notes in square brackets [ ] have been added rtiainly in order 
 to translate the Oreeh phrases, and to give the references to Greek 
 poets. For these thanks are due to Mr. F. G. Kenyan, who has 
 revised the proofs with the assistance of Mr. Roger Ingpen ; the 
 latter being responsible for the index. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BROWNINfG . Fronliapiece 
 
 After the picture by Oordigiani 
 
 FACSIMILE OF LETTER OF ROBERT BROWNING To face p. 572 
 
THE LETTEES OE 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 AND 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey. 
 [Post-mark, January 10, 1845.] 
 
 I LOVE 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 recogni- 
 tion 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 be- 
 come, 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 bot- 
 tom, 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, 
 Vol. I.— 1 
 
2 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 10 
 
 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 un- 
 toward 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? 
 Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy 
 and pride with which I feel myself. 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 EOBEET BeOWNIKG. 
 Miss Barrett, ' 
 
 50 Wimpole St. 
 E. Browning. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 Wimpole Street : Jan. 11, 1845. 
 
 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 
 
 ' [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.] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 3 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 — that 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 in- 
 convenient effort from your 'passive state,' and will tell me 
 of such faults as rise to the surface and strike you as im- 
 portant 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 pos- 
 sible 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 tlmt, 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 criti- 
 cism I receive, is, I thiri, upon the style, ' if I would but 
 change my style ' ! But tlmt is an objection (isn't it?) to 
 the writer bodily? Buff on says, and every sincere writer 
 must feel, that 'Le style c'est I'homme;' a fact, however, 
 scarcely calculated to lessen the objection with certain 
 critics. 
 
 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? But — you know — if you had entered the 'crypt,' 
 you might have caught cold, or been tired to death, and 
 
4 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Jan. H 
 
 wished yourself 'a thousand miles off j' 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, loe sJiall see : 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 un- 
 speakably, 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. 
 
 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 ad- 
 mirer and student of your works. This is in my heart to 
 say to you — and I say it. 
 
 And, for the rest, I am proud to remain 
 
 Your obliged and faithful 
 
 Elizabeth B. Bakbett. 
 
 Eobert Browning, Esq. 
 
 New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Kew Cross, Hatcham, Surrey. 
 Jan. 13, 1845. 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 5 
 
 my poor praise, number one, was nearly as felicitously 
 brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a personage 
 tban Tasso, which I was amused with at Eome some weeks 
 ago, in a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at 
 Sant' Onofrio — 'Alia cara memoria — di — (please fancy 
 solemn interspaces and grave capital letters at the new 
 lines) di — Torquato Tasso — il Dottore Bemardini — offriva 
 — il seguente Carme — tu ' — 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 everything which impressed me in your verses, 
 down, even, to whatever ' faults ' I could find^a good ear- 
 nest, when I had got to them, that I had left out not much 
 between — as if some Mr. Fellows were to say, in the over- 
 flow 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-corre- 
 sponded 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 ! 
 
 What ' struck me as faults ', were not matters on the re- 
 moval 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 
 
6 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 13 
 
 its degree to justify that heap of hair in her hands — the 
 only gold effected now ! 
 
 But abotit this soon — for night is drawing on and I go 
 out, yet cannot, quiet at conscience, till I repeat (to myself, 
 for I never said it to you, I think) that your poetry must 
 be, cannot but be, infinitely naore to me than mine to you 
 — for you do what I always wanted, hoped to do, and only 
 seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak out, 
 you, — 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 you hear, after all, the savage things 
 •ajpout Popes and imaginative religions that I must say. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ever yours most faithfully, 
 
 E. Bkowning. 
 
 For Mr. Kenyon — I have a convenient theory about Mm, 
 and his otherwise quite unaccountable kindness to me; but 
 'tis quite night now, and they call me. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 Wimpole Street : Jan. 15, 1845. 
 
 Dear Mr. Browning, — The fault was clearly with me and 
 not with you. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 7 
 
 When I had an Italian master, years ago, lie told me that 
 there was an impronounceable English word which abso- 
 lutely expressed me, and which he would sa;y in his own 
 tongue, as he could not in mine — 'testa lunga.' Of course, 
 the signor meant headhng ! — 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 head- 
 long 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. 
 Home, is often forced to entreat me into patience and cool- 
 ness 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 he has been ' head- 
 long ' (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. 
 
 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 appre- 
 hend 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 eUwkov cast off in his work. All the effort — 
 the quick'ning of the breath and beating of the heart in 
 
8 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 15 
 
 pursuit, wMch is ruffling and injurious to the general 
 effect of a composition; all which you call 'insistency,' 
 and which many would call superfluity, and which is 
 superfluous in a sense — you can pardon, because you un- 
 derstand. 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 say everything I think 
 (as has been said of me by master-critics) but I take every 
 means to say wJuzt I think, which is different ! — or I fancy so ! 
 
 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 ob- 
 jective in the habits of your mind. You can deal both with 
 abstract thought and with human passion in the most pas- 
 sionate sense. Thus, you have an immense grasp in Art; 
 and no one at all accustomed to consider the usual forms 
 of it, coidd help regarding with reverence and gladness the 
 gradual expansion of your powers. Then you are ' mascu- 
 line ' 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. 
 
 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 develope itself other- 
 wise 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 9 
 
 would give the public a poem unasaociated directly or in- 
 directly with the stage, for a trial on the popular heart. I 
 reverence the drama, but — 
 
 But I break in on myself out of consideration for you. I 
 might have done it, you will think, before. I vex your ' se- 
 rene sleep of the virtuous ' like a nightmare. Do not say 
 ' No. ' I am sure 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 shaU willingly exchange 
 it all (and now, if you please, at this moment, for fear of 
 worldly mutabilities) for the ' delight of your friendship.' 
 Believe me, therefore, dear Mr. Browning, 
 FaithfuUy yours, and gratefully, 
 
 Elizabeth B. Baeeett. 
 
 For Mr. Kenyon's kindness, as I see it, no theory will 
 account. I class it with mesmerism for that reason. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 New Cross, Hatcham, Monday night. 
 [Post-mark, January 38, 1845.] 
 
 Dear Miss Barrett, — Tour 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 
 
10 THE LETTEES OF KOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 28 
 
 again — who knows? — I shall say at once that the said 
 faults cannot be lost, must be somewhere, and shall be faith- 
 fully 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, really — 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 vol- 
 umes, I should be paid after a fashion, I know. 
 
 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. 
 
 Here an odd memory comes — of a friend who, — volun- 
 teering such a service to a sonnet-writing somebody, gave 
 him a taste of his quality in a side-column of short criti- 
 cisms 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 
 Second's allowance, and 'worser' &c. answered the demands 
 of the Third; ' worster, worsterer, worsterest ' supplied the 
 emergency of the Fourth; and, bestowing his last ' worser- 
 estest and worstestest ' on lines 13 and 14, my friend (slap- 
 ping his forehead like an emptied strong-bos) frankly de- 
 clared himseH bankrupt, and honourably incompetent, to 
 satisfy the reasonable expectations of the rest of the series. 
 
 What an illustration of the law by which opposite ideas 
 suggest opposite, and contrary images come together ! 
 
 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 Bradbury akd Evans' 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 11 
 
 Header 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! 
 
 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, begin 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 sJiall hear from you — and 
 very little more about your ' tiring me. ' 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 EoBEET Browning. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 Walpole Street : Feb. 3, 1845. 
 
 Why how could I hate to write to you, dear Mr. Brown- 
 ing? Could you believe in such a thing? If nobody likes 
 writing to everybody (except such professional letter writers 
 as you and I are not), yet everybody likes writing to some- 
 body, and it would be strange and contradictory if I were 
 not always delighted both to hear from you and to write to 
 you, 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 scrawl- 
 ing mottoes on the walls. Not that I write to many in the 
 way of regular correspondence, as our friend Mr. Home 
 predicates of me in his romances (which is mere romanc- 
 ing !^, but that there are a few who will write and be writ- 
 ten to by me without a sense of injury. Dear Miss Mit- 
 ford, for instance. You do not know her, I think, personally, 
 although she was the first to tell me (when I was very ill 
 
12 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 3 
 
 and insensible to all the glories of the world except poetry) 
 of the grand scene in ' Pippa Passes. ' She 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, 
 x.r.L I write this to you to show how I can have pleas- 
 ure in letters, and never think them too long, nor too fre- 
 quent, 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 en 
 ton camarade, without reference to the conventionalities of 
 'ladies and gentlemen, ' taking no thought for your sen- 
 tences (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, 
 then, I am ready to sign and seal the contract, and to rejoice 
 in being ' articled ' as your correspondent. Only don't let 
 us have any constraint, any ceremony ! Don't 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 cir- 
 cumstance, and let us rest from the bowing and the courte- 
 sying, 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 every- 
 thing as you will teach me. On the other hand you must pre- 
 pare yourself to forbear and to forgive — will you? While I 
 throw off the ceremony, I hold the faster to the kindness. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT. 13 
 
 Is it true, aa 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 not 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 my poems 
 being there, 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 lis, be likely to be thrown 
 from the course, by the casting of any Atalanta-ball of 
 speedy popularity. But I do not know, I caimot guess, 
 whether you are liable to be pained deeply by hard criti- 
 cism and cold neglect, such as original writers like your- 
 self 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 criti- 
 cism, 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 
 
14 THE LETTBES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 3 
 
 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 ' {yoio began), and I, who know 
 that you have not one but many enthusiastic admirers, the 
 ' fit and few ' in the intense meaning, yet not the diffused 
 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 ex- 
 perienced by the true artist, — is not the good immeasurably 
 greater than the evil? It it not great good, and great joy? 
 For my part, I wonder sometimes — I surprise myself won- 
 dering—how without such an object and purpose of life, 
 people find it worth while to live at all. And, for happi- 
 ness — why, my only idea of happiness, as far as my per- 
 sonal enjoyment is concerned, (but I have been straight- 
 ened 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 yourself— what you feel to be your- 
 self—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 grate- 
 ful, less than anything ! 
 
 My faults, my faults— Shall I help you? Ah— you see 
 them too well, I fear. And do you know that /also have 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT. 15 
 
 sometliing of your feeling about ' being about to begin,' 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 lo, 
 and declared at last that he was iiriSiTzio Iv Tzpooi/iloc?^^ poor 
 lo burst out crying. And when the author of ' Paracelsus ' 
 and the ' Bells and Pomegranates ' says that he is only ' go- 
 ing 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 will do what is greater. 
 It is my faith for you. 
 
 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) . 
 
 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 Eichardson, 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 — 
 
 I have no joy in this contract to-day! 
 It is too unadvised, too rasli and sudden. 
 
 Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 Elizabeth B. Baeeett. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Hatcham, Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, February 11, 1845.] 
 
 Dear Miss Barrett, — People would hardly ever tell false- 
 hoods about a matter, if they had been let tell truth in the 
 beginning, for it is hard to prophane one's very self, and 
 ' 'Not yet readied the prelude ' {Aesch. Prom. 741). 
 
16 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Feb. 11 
 
 nobody who has, for instance, used certain words and ways 
 to a mother or a father could, even if by the devil's help he 
 loould, reproduce or mimic them with any effect to any- 
 body 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 that we could deal with) a cer- 
 tain MS. letter of Cromwell's which completes the collec- 
 tion now going to press ; and this long-ears had to be ' dear 
 Sir'd and obedient servanted ' till I said (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 masoretio otJier 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 unmistak- 
 able eyes. Now, what you say of the ' bowing,' and con- 
 vention that is to be, and tant defagons 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 stiU 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 con- 
 science I shall begin replying to your questions. But 
 then — what I have printed gives no knowledge of me — it 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 17 
 
 evidences abilities of various kinds, if you will — and a dra- 
 matic sympathy with certain modifications of passion . . . 
 that I think — But I never have begun, even, what I hope 
 I was born to begin and end — ' fl. 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 are 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, where- 
 in the light is ever revolving in a dark gallery, bright and 
 alive, and only after a weary interval leaps out, for a mo- 
 jment, from the one narrow chink, and then goes on with 
 the blind wall between it and you; and, no doUbt, then, 
 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 inside, 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 could make a great bon- 
 fire 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 hope sometimes, though phrenolo- 
 gists will have it that I cannot, and am doing better with 
 this darling ' Luria ' — so safe in my head, and a tiny slip of 
 paper I cover with my thumb ! 
 
 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 under- 
 stand. 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 
 VOL. I.— 3 
 
18 THE LETTEES OE ROBERT BEOWNIKG [Feb. 11 
 
 that, after every drawback and shortcoming, I do my best, 
 all things considered — that is for me, 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 cab- 
 bages, if I pleased to grow them in the garden here, I 
 might demand, say, a dozen pence at Covent Garden Mar- 
 ket, — 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 Kialto 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 yet 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 Punch, 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 
 you, critics, hucksters, all of you, if I have this garden and 
 this conscience— I might go die at Eome, or take to gin 
 and the newspaper, for what you 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 recog- 
 nition. I never wanted a real set of good hearty praisers 
 — and no bad reviewers — I am quite content with my 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 19 
 
 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. TImt does make 
 me savage — nev&r the other kind of people; why, think 
 now — take your own ' Drama of Exile ' and let me 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 Post- 
 man, the seller of cheap sealing-wax, Mr. Hawkins Junr, 
 the Butcher for orders, and the Tax gatherer — wiU 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 ven- 
 ture 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 Spectators and Observers and Newcastle- 
 upon-Tyne — Hebdomadal Mercuries back again ! You see 
 the inference — I do sincerely esteem it a perfectly provi- 
 dential 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 Quarterly and does as they bid him, with the most sol- 
 emn face in the world — out goes this, in goes that, all is 
 changed and ranged. Oh me ! 
 
 Out comes the sun, in comes the Times and eleven strikes 
 (it does) 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 
 
20 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. IX 
 
 tliat spring is coming, for all this snow; and know me for 
 
 yours ever faithfully, 
 
 E. Bkowning. 
 
 I don't dare — yet I will — ask can you read this? Be- 
 cause I could write a little better, but not so fast. Do you 
 keep writing just as you do now ! 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 "Wimpole Street, February 17, 1845. 
 
 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'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 pro- 
 fession — shall I say? — never should do it, or what will be- 
 come 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 yaii, 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. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 21 
 
 I consider myself a very patient, laborious writer — thougli 
 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 popu- 
 lar taste, I might be careless in it. But the pursuit of an 
 Ideal acknowledged by the mind, will 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 gen- 
 eral, — and though all are liable to vicissitudes in the de- 
 gree of facility — and to entanglements in the machinery, 
 notwithstanding every degree of facility. Tou 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 ex- 
 press 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 rea- 
 sons which you don't know, I couldn't possibly know any- 
 thing about you; though that is all true — and proven 
 (which is better than true) — I reaUy 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 pro- 
 fessed 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 
 
22 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 17 
 
 blue eyes and black eyes and hazel eyes and noses Eonian 
 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 you are different. 
 You are to be made out by the comparative anatomy sys- 
 tem. You have thrown out fragments of os . . sublime . . 
 indicative of soul-mammothism — and you live to develop 
 your nature, — if you live. That is easy and plain. Tou 
 h^kve taken a great range — from those high faint notes 
 "" of the mystics which are beyond personality . . to dra- 
 matic 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 mflra-and-more^^,, !B,ut Xdo-nQt,_you 
 .^y,-fcnOTV-you"rseIf — you. I only know abilities and facul- 
 ties. Well, then, teach me yourself — you. I will not in- 
 sist on the knowledge — and, in fact, you have not written 
 the E. B. poem yet — your rays fall obliquely rather than 
 directly straight. I see you only in your moon. Do teU 
 me all of yourself that you can and will . . before the B. 
 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 bap- 
 tise oneself in that acrid moisture, where can be the temp- 
 tation? 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 
 
1845J AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 23 
 
 Kings and princes in poetry. I love them througli 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. 
 
 How true — how true . . is all you say about critics. 
 My convictions follow you in every word. And I delight- 
 ed to read your views of the poet's right aspect towards 
 criticism — I read them with the most complete apprecia- 
 tion 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 con- 
 fer them with the literary product of the said ages. Pro- 
 fessor "Wilson has begun something of the kind apparently, 
 in his initiatory paper of the last Blaclaoood 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 unil- 
 lumed age, that period of Elizabeth which we see full of 
 suns ! and few can see what is close to the eyes though 
 they run their heads against it; the denial of contempo- 
 rary genius is the rule rather than the exception. No one 
 counts the eagles in the nest, tiU there is a rush of wings ; 
 and lo! they are flown. And here we speak of under- 
 standing men, such as the Sydney s and the Dry dens. 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 influence is no less undeniable than the reason 
 why they should not be influential. The brazen kettles 
 
24 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb. 17 
 
 will be taken for oracles all the world over. But the influ- 
 ence is for to-day, for this hour — not for to-morrow and 
 the day after — unless indeed, as you say, the poet do him- 
 self 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 ex- 
 quisite, — 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 sugges- 
 tions from without may not be accepted with discrimina- 
 tion 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 science creusi — 
 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. 
 
 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 of the authorship of your ' Pip- 
 pa,' I did not mean to call it your finest work (you 
 might reproach me for that), but just to express a per- 
 sonal 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, be- 
 sides, feel that. 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 confitecyr tibi — 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 25 
 
 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 expres- 
 sive of various faculty. 
 
 Is the poem under your thumb, emerging from it? and 
 in what metre? May I ask such questions? 
 
 And does Mr. Carlyle tell you that he has forbidden aU 
 ' singing ' to this perverse and froward generation, which 
 should work and not sing? And have you told Mr. Car- 
 lyle 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 him to have thought ill of me, 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 aU. 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 farm- 
 yard — and it seems all quite natural that it should be so, 
 both to geese and Eomans ! 
 
 But there are things you say, which seem to me super- 
 natural, 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 
 
26 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNINa [Feb. 17 
 
 I do your death's heads and the spider-webs appertain- 
 ing; but the soul of Cornelius Agrippa fades from me. 
 Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 Elizabeth B. Baeeett. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday morning— Spring ! 
 [Post-marlj, February 26, 1845.] 
 
 Keal 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 
 tliat would not do to end with (end I will), and Luria is a 
 Moor, of Othello's country, and devotes himself to some- 
 thing he thinks Florence, and the old fortune follows— all in 
 my brain, yet, but the bright weather helps and I wiU 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 (rav- 
 ishing 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 wiU do 
 as you bid me, and — say first I have some Bomances and 
 Lyrics, all dramatic, to dispatch, and then, 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, pas vrai ? For, as I think I told you, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 27 
 
 I always shiver involuntarily when I look — no, glance — at 
 this First Poem of mine to be. 'Now,' I caU it, what, 
 upon my soul, — for a solemn matter it is, — what is to be 
 done noio, believed now, so far as it has been revealed to 
 me — solemn words, truly — and to find myself writing them 
 to any one else ! Enough now. 
 
 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 8o7ig ? Of aU things in the 
 world, that 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 spite of nature and my 
 stars, I shall burst into a song ' (he is not mechanically 
 ' musical,' he meant, and the music is the poetry, beholds, 
 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 be- 
 ginning 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. ' 'He says, ' quoth Carlyle magis- 
 terially, ' 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 dar- 
 ling ' (' my darling ' 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 perfec- 
 tion have impressed itseK in this old Jacobite's "young 
 Cavalier" — (" They go to save their land, and the young 
 Cavalier a") — when I who care nothing about such a rag 
 of a man, cannot but feel as he felt, in speaking his words 
 
28 THE LETTEKS OF EOBEET BEOWNING- [Feb. 36 
 
 after him ! ' After saying which, he would be sure to coun- 
 sel 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 diplo- 
 macy. 
 
 Who told you of my sculls and spider webs — Home? 
 Last year I petted extraordinarily a fine fellow, (a garden 
 spider — there was the singularity, — the thin clever-even-for 
 a spider-sort, and they are so ' 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 Home 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 rea- 
 sonable 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 Andro- 
 meda along with ' Boors Carousing,' by Ostade, — where I 
 found her, — my own father's doing, or I wouldLsay^naorfi— ■ 
 And when i^Jiave-'said I like Pippa better than any- 
 ' thing'eTse I have done yet, I shall have answered all you 
 bade me. And now may 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 some- 
 ' where the little book I first printed when a boy, with John 
 .MUl, the metaphysical head, /lis marginal note that ' the 
 
1845] ANJJ JiiLiiz-Aujixxi ^.aREETT 29 
 
 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 am grateful, very grateful to 
 you,- — for none of your words but I take in earnest — and 
 tell me if Spring he not 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, 
 ' I throw aside the learned sheet ; 
 'I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so — mildly sweet. ' 
 
 Out on the foolish phrase, but there's hard rhyming with- 
 out it. Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 Egbert Beowning. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 Wimpole Street : Feb. 37, 1845. 
 
 Tes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring accord- 
 ing 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. That is my idea of what you call spring ; mine, in 
 the neiu style ! 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 com- 
 mentary 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 
 
30 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 27 
 
 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 per- 
 haps as far as the contemporary period is concerned, than 
 if he did forthwith ' burst into a song. ' 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ures than I can appear even to myself now. 
 
 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 
 thymele 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 im- 
 pertinence, which would dare to say ' turn this way ' or 
 ' turn from that way '—it should not be my 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.' 
 
 For myself and my own doings, you shall hear directly 
 what I have been doing, and what I am about to do. Some 
 
1845J AJSU J!iJji^i4.J3JCiXrL x>aE,RETT 31 
 
 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 undid into English, the ' Prome- 
 theus ' of ^schylus. To speak of this production mode- 
 rately (not modestly), it is the most miserable of all miser- 
 able 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 re- 
 solved 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 JEschylus stands 
 at the foot of my bed now, I shaU have a little breath to 
 front him. I have done my duty by him, not indeed ac- 
 cording to his claims, but in proportion to my faculty. 
 Whether I shall ever publish or not (remember) remains 
 to be considered — that is a dififerent side of the subject. 
 If I do, it may 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 ^Eschylus 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. 
 
32 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 27 
 
 But my chief intention just now is the writing of a sort 
 of novel-poem — a poem as completely modern as ' Geral- 
 dine's Courtship,' running into the midst of our conven- 
 tions, 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 inten- 
 tion. 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 treat- 
 ment. 
 
 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. Home never spoke 
 it to my ears — (I never saw him face to face in my life, al- 
 though 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 / heard it 
 from you yourself, how would you answer? And it luas so. 
 Why, are you not aware that these are the days of mes- 
 merism and clairvoyance? Are you an infidel? I have 
 believed in your skulls for the last year, for my part. 
 
 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 be- 
 tween me and that time, the cypresses grow thick and 
 dark. 
 
 Is it true that your wishes fulfil themselves? And when 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 33 
 
 they do, are they not bitter to your taste — do you not wish 
 them ttJifulfiUed? Oh, this life, this life! There is com- 
 fort 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. 
 
 Of course you are self-conscious — How could you be a 
 poet otherwise? Tell me. 
 
 Ever faithfuUy yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 And was the little book written with Mr. MiU pure meta- 
 physics, or what? 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Night, March 1 [1845]. 
 
 Dear Miss Barrett, — I seem to find of a sudden — surely 
 I knew before — anyhow, I do find now, that with the oc- 
 taves 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 es- 
 caping ' &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, must, 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 circum- 
 stances of it, singularly untenable. I have been ' spoiled ' 
 in this world — to such an extent, indeed, that I often reason 
 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 
 Vol. I.— 3 
 
34 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Mak. 1 
 
 life, no! Out of all wliicli 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 an- 
 other subject in your note ! I looked at that translation 
 for a minute, not longer, years ago, knowing nothing about 
 it or you, and I only looked to see what rendering a pas- 
 sage had received that was often in my thoughts. ' I forget 
 your version (it was not yours, my ' yours ' then; I mean I 
 had no extraordinary interest about it), but the original 
 makes Prometheus (telling over his bestowments towards 
 human happiness) say, as something 7:spaiHpm twvSs, that 
 he stopped mortals /j-ri -upoSlpxsadat (lopov — zb TzoXov s6pd>v^ asks 
 the Chorus, TtjaSs ^dpiiaxov voaouf Whereto he replies, rup- 
 A«? iv auToii iXiiiSas xarwxtaa (what you hear men dissertate 
 upon by the hour, as proving the immortality of the soul 
 apart from revelation, undying yearnings, restless long- 
 ings, instinctive desires which, unless to be eventually in- 
 dulged, it were cruel to plant in lis, &c. &c.). But, /j-i/ 
 (bipiXrjiia TOOT ^Scoprjffa) (ipoToT<s\ concludes the chorus, like a 
 sigh from the admitted Eleusinian ^schylus was ! Tou 
 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 
 
 Yours ever, 
 E. B. 
 
 ' [The following is the version of the passage in Mrs. Browning's 
 later translation of the 'Prometheus ' (11. 247-351 of the original) : 
 
 From. I did restrain besides 
 
 My mortals from premeditating death, 
 Cho. How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of death? 
 Prom. I set blind hopes to inhabit in their house. 
 Cho. By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well.] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 35 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 March 5, 1845. 
 
 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 melan- 
 choly 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 essentially better, 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 feel- 
 ing. Tes ! 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 /*^/ dipiXTj/ia. I think not. It is weU to fly 
 towards the light, even where there may be some fluttering 
 and bruising of wings against the windowpanes, is it not? 
 
 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 not, however, foreseen the ex- 
 tent 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 tor- 
 ment of the martyrdom — but the heroism of the martyr 
 diminishes in proportion — and there appears to be a contra- 
 diction, and oversight. Or is my view wrong? Tell me. 
 And tell me too, if ^schylus is 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. 
 
36 THE LETTEES OP ROBERT BROWNING [Mab. 5 
 
 But to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes ; 
 you are not to think — ^whatever I may have written or im- 
 plied — 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 bod- 
 ily seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I 
 sometimes say and oftener feel), — the wisdom of cheerful- 
 ness — 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 pro- 
 portion 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. 
 
 And I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to Jiappi- 
 ness, 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. 
 
 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 expe- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 37 
 
 rience that there ia kindness everywhere in different pro- 
 portions, and more goodness and tenderheartedness than 
 we read of in the moralists. People have been kind to me, 
 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. 
 
 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 uncon- 
 sciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it is delight- 
 ful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend. 
 
 May God bless you ! 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 Elizabeth B. Bakrett. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 13, 1845.] 
 
 Tour letter made me so happy, dear Miss Barrett, that I 
 have kept quiet this while ; is it too great a shame if I be- 
 gin to want more good news of you, and to say so? Be- 
 cause there has been a bitter wind ever since. WiU you 
 grant me a great favour? Always when you write, though 
 about your own works, not Greek plays merely, put me in, 
 always, 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 pro- 
 pose to make, for the times ; the fearless fresh living work 
 you describe, is the only Poem to be imdertaken now by 
 you or anyone that is 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 
 
,,-§8- "THE-I^ETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Mae. 13 
 
 / be : 
 
 much, much nearer doing, since you will along with 
 I me. And you can 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 ac- 
 """"companying-monGlogue wiEmake amends too. Or shall I 
 set you a task I meant for myself once upon a time? — 
 which, oh, how you would fulfil ! Eestore the Prometheus 
 7:up<p6po? as Shelley did the Auoiibvo^; when I say ' restore,' 
 I know, or very much fear, that the -upfupoi; was the same 
 with the ■aup-Aaeii? which, by a fragment, we sorrowfully as- 
 certain to have been a Satyric Drama ; but surely the capa- 
 bilities 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 begin- 
 ning of Jupiter's dynasty, the calm in Heaven after the 
 storm, the ascending — (stop, I will get the book and give 
 
 the words), onmg rd^tara rb-i narpi^ov el? Opovov xaOi^sr, euOh? 
 Saiixoaiv vi/iet yipa akXotfftv alXa — z.t.A.,' all the while Prome- 
 theus being the first among the first in honour, as xairot 
 OsoXai ToT? viol's zoutoi? yipa ti'j aXXo^, ^ y^, ■Ko.vreXaJs Sitopias^ ' 
 
 then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous blue 
 
 and gold everywhere, ^pozwv Sk rmv TaXaiTzwpcuv Xdyov ovx ea^ev 
 
 obSija' and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race, 
 and plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand 
 solitary iya> S' kr6Xp.-q(!a* and his saving them, as the first 
 good, from annihilation. Then comes the darkening brow 
 of Zeus, and estrangement from the benign circle of grate- 
 ful gods, and the dissuasion of old confederates, and all the 
 Eight that one may fancy in Might, the strongest reasons 
 
 ' [Aeschylus, Prometlieus, 228£f. : ' When at first 
 
 He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
 Made various gifts of glory to the gods. '] 
 
 ' lb. 439, 440 : ' For see — their honours to these new-made gods. 
 What other gave but I? '] 
 
 » [lb. 231, 233 : ' Alone of men. 
 
 Of miserable men, he took no count. '] 
 
 * [lb. 235 : ' But I dared it. '] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 39 
 
 ■raOsffdai zpoTtoo fdavOpm-Kou^ coming from the own mind of 
 the Titan, if you will, and all the while he shall be pro- 
 ceeding steadily in the alleviation of the sufferings of mor- 
 tals whom, vqTtiou<s uvrai rd itpiv, evvous xa\ <ppsvaiv kTrrj^dkoui 
 
 eOyjx^,' while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is about 
 to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more dis- 
 tinctly, till at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of 
 man, body (by the gift of fire) and soul (by even those 
 rufXal U-iSe?,' hopes of immortality), and so having ren- 
 dered him utterly, according to the mythos here, indepen- 
 dent 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 tJiey 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 gran- 
 deur 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 signifi- 
 cantly enough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is 
 not as it was, nor will ever be. Such might be the frame- 
 work 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. Tou see, I meant the /^i/ ("V^^p-a* to be a 
 
 ' [li. 11 : ' Lea^e off his old trick of loving man. '] 
 ' [lb. 443, 444 : ' Being fools before, 
 
 I made them wise and true in aim of soul. '] 
 ' [lb. 350 : ' Blind hopes. '] 
 * [lb. 251 : 'A great benefit. '] 
 
40 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Mae. 13 
 
 deep great truth ; if there were no life beyond this, I think 
 the hope in one would be an incalculable blessing /or this 
 life, which is melancholy for one like iBschylus to feel, if 
 he could (mly hope, because the argument as to the ulterior 
 good of those hopes is cut clean away, and what had he 
 left? 
 
 I do not find it take away from my feeling of the magna- 
 nimity of Prometheus that he should, in truth, complain 
 (as he does from beginning to end) of what he finds him- 
 self 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 bat- 
 tles 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, .^schylus from first word to last {Usadi ;ie^ 
 6la Tcda^u)^ to iffopa? fie^ oi? Exdixa iza.a^uy') insists on the Un- 
 mitigated reality of the punishment which only the sun, 
 and divine ether, and the godhead of his mother can com- 
 prehend; still, still that is only what I suppose ^schylus 
 to have done — in your poem you shall make Prometheus 
 our way. 
 
 And now enough of Greek, which I am fast forgetting 
 (for I never look at books I loved once)— it was your men- 
 tion 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 you — that I ' uncon- 
 sciously exaggerate what you are to me. ' Now, you don't 
 know what tliat 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 ! 
 
 ' [lb. 93 : ' Behold what I suffer. '] 
 
 » \Ib. 1093 ; 'Dost see how I suffer this wrong? '] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 41 
 
 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, per- 
 haps. 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, any 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 vurite, 
 and tliat 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 ope- 
 ration 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 through what you have writ- 
 ten, not properly /or* 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 ovm, and fresh-minted for this moment's use ! . . 
 Tours ever faithfully, 
 
 E. Beowking. 
 
42 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Mak. 20 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 50 Wimpole Street : March 20, 1845. 
 
 Whenever I delay to write to you, dear Mr. Browning, 
 it is not, be sure, that I take my ' own good time, ' but sub- 
 mit 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? Tet 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 be- 
 ing 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 you 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? Tou 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 knowl- 
 edge 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 like 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. 
 
 And what you say of society draws me on to many com- 
 parative thoughts of your life and mine. Tou seem to have 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 43 
 
 drunken of the cup of life full, witli the sun shining on it. 
 I have lived only inwardly ; or with sorrow, for a strong 
 emotion. Before this seclusion of my illness, I was se- 
 cluded 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 op- 
 portunities, 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 
 one, 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 names to me, that I 
 had beheld no great moimtain 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 blind poet? 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 . . . 
 
 But aU grumbling is a vile thing. We should aU thank 
 
44 THE LETTEES OP ROBERT BEOWNING [Mar. 20 
 
 God for our measures of life, and think tliem 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 
 joys, 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 Uve? Not to eat and drink and breathe, — but to feel 
 the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately 
 and joyfuUy. And thus, one lives in composition surely — 
 not always — ^but when the wheel goes round and the pro- 
 cession is uninterrupted. Is it not so with you? oh — it 
 must be so. For the rest, there will be necessarily a re- 
 action; 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 mo- 
 ment; and nothing remains but disappointment and humil- 
 iation. I never wrote a poem which you could not per- 
 suade me to tear to pieces if you took me at the right 
 moment ! I have a seasonable humility, I do assure yoii. 
 
 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 I 
 Tou 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. ' Tou 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? / am very fond of ro- 
 mances ; yes ! and I read them not only as some wise peo- 
 ple are known to do, for the sake of the eloquence here and 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 45 
 
 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 I Mr. Chorley 
 made me quite laugh the other day by recommending Mary 
 Howitt's ' Improvisatore, ' with a sort of deprecating refer- 
 ence to the descriptions in the book, just as if I never read 
 a novel — 1! I wrote a confession back to him which made 
 him shake his head perhaps, and now I confess to you, 
 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. 
 
 Ah ! you tempt me with a grand vision of Prometheus ! 
 I, who have just escaped with my life, after treading Mil- 
 ton's ground, you would send me to ^schylus's. No, I do 
 not dare. And besides ... I am inclined to think that 
 we want new /on?is, 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 Life, 
 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 every- 
 where; the ' treasure ' (see the old fable) lies aU over the 
 
46 THE LETTERS OP EGBERT BROWNING [Mae. 20 
 
 field. And then Christianity is a worthy myth, and poeti- 
 cally acceptable. 
 
 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? 
 
 May God bless you ! 
 
 Ever and truly yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday Morning 
 [Post-mark, March 31, 1845.] 
 
 When you read Don Quixote, my dear romance-reader, 
 do you ever notice that flower of an incident of good fel- 
 lowship 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 knowl- 
 edge 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 
 then, fetching a profound sigh, broke silence with . . such 
 a piece of praise as turns pale the labours in that way of 
 Eabelais and the Teian (if he wasn't a Byzantine monk, 
 alas!) and our Mr. Kenyon's stately self — (since my own 
 especial poet h moi, 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 read- 
 ing the same, and the brown study is — how shall I deserve 
 and be grateful enough to this new strange friend of my 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 47 
 
 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 stum- 
 bled out after this fashion 'Dere Smith, — I calls you 
 "tZere" . . 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 glad- 
 ness 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 — Dii meliora piis, and, among them to 
 Tours every where, and at all times yours 
 
 E. Bbowning. 
 
 I have all to say yet — next letter. E. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Night. 
 [Post-mark, April 16, 1845.] 
 
 I heard of you, dear Miss Barrett, between a Polka and 
 a CeUarius 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 
 
48 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [Apeil16 
 
 were to be balloted for at the 'Athenaeum ' 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 you 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 
 Eeverend 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. 
 
 Monday — last night when I could do nothing else I be- 
 gan to write to you, such writing as you have seen — 
 strange ! The proper time and season for good sound sen- 
 sible 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 that 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 you 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 
 fuori di me. 
 
 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 
 
1815] ^ AND ELiZAliKi'H EAJttEETT 49 
 
 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 moulds every where, 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,' 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. 
 Ever yours, dear Miss Barrett, 
 
 R. Bbownetg. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B, 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, April 18, 1845.] 
 
 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 can- 
 not tell you. And you see, . . all your writing will not 
 change the wind ! Tou 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 therefore, I was logically 
 boimd to believe that you had never thought of me since 
 . . unless you thought east winds of me ! Tlmt 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 rough slietcli follows in the original.] 
 Vol. 1.-4 
 
/ 50 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [ApeilIS 
 
 a syllogism. In fact I have long left off thinking that 
 logic proves anything — it doesn't, you know. 
 
 But your Lamia has taught you some subtle ' viperine ' 
 reasoning and motiving, for the turning down one street in- 
 stead of another. It was conclusive. 
 
 Ah — but you will never persuade me that I am the bet- 
 ter, or as well, for the thing that I have not. We look 
 from different points of view, and yours is the point of at- 
 tainment. Not that you do not truly say that, when aU 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 va- 
 rious experience — and I have a profound conviction that 
 where a poet has been shut from most of the outward as- 
 pects 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? Tou do not 
 directly, I know — but you do indirectly and by a rebound. 
 "Whatever acts upon you, becomes you — and whatever you 
 love or hate, whatever charms you or is scorned by you, 
 acts on you and becomes you. Have you read the ' Impro- 
 visatore ' ? 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. 
 
 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 manners, . . life, 
 even the outer life, meaning something deeper, in my ac- 
 count 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 be like him. I know enough to know other- 
 wise. When he spoke of me he should have said that I 
 was better notwithstanding the east wind. It is really true 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 51 
 
 — I am getting slowly up from the prostration of the severe 
 cold, and feel stronger in myself. 
 
 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 wit- 
 ness to it ! if you think it worth while ! 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 Elizabeth B. Baeeett. 
 
 And is it nothing to be ' justified to one's self in one's 
 resources?' TAafsaZ?,' 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 ! 
 
 B. B. to B. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, April 30, 1845.] 
 
 If you did but know, dear Miss Barrett, how the ' fuU 
 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 . . . 
 
 By this time you see what you have got in me — Tou 
 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 must come, you 
 feel — and the tangled threads draw to one, and an out-of- 
 
52 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNING [April 30 
 
 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 detach- 
 ment 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 do, in bitterness of soul, turn it, you 
 read — ' On consideration, I ' (Ben, himself ) ' shall keep 
 them for Mr. Colburn's New Magazine ' — 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) — 
 
 I think I will really write verse to you some day — this 
 day, it is quite clear I had better give up trying. 
 
 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 
 Eeviews. 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 possi- 
 ble none, in Dante even — material for Poetry in the pitiful- 
 lest 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 53 
 
 as colourless as salad grown under a garden glass with 
 matting over it — as free, tliat is, from local colouring, 
 touches of tlie soil they are said to spring from, — think of 
 ' SauUe, ' and his Greek attempts ! 
 
 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 fan- 
 cying the East wind does my head harm too ! 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 E. Beowning. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, May 3, 1845.] 
 
 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 argu- 
 ment drawn from ' Vivian Grey.' Once I sate up all night 
 to read ' Yivian Grey ' ; but I never drew such an argument 
 from him. Not that I give it up (nor you up) for a mere 
 mystery. Nor that I can 'see what you have got in you,' 
 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 you by the refracted lights as well as by the direct ones ; 
 and because I am willing for you to know me 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 Colburn's Magazine, 
 with other Gothic literature, and take to standing up in a 
 
54 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [May 2 
 
 perpendicular personality like the angel on the school- 
 man's needle, in my letters to come, without further lean- 
 ing to the left or the right — why the end would be that you 
 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 . . . ! 
 {Not a ' full stop ' ! .) 
 
 Indeed . . I do assure you . . I never for a moment 
 thought of ' making conversation ' about the ' Improvisa- 
 tore ' or novels in general, when I wrote what I did to you. 
 I might, to other persons . . perhaps. Certainly not to 
 you. 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 you — 
 never. Women are said to partake of the nature of chil- 
 dren — and my brothers call me ' absurdly childish ' some- 
 times : 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. But — 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. 
 
 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 pro- 
 phane. Dante's poetry only materials for the northern 
 rhymers ! I must think of that . . if you please . . be- 
 fore 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 Duch- 
 ess ' — do let us hear more of her ! Are you (I wonder) . . . 
 not a ' self-flatterer, ' . . but . . a flatterer. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 55 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 3, 1845.] 
 
 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. Tou 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 ApoUon, you are to know further that when I did 
 think I might go modestly on, . . uiivn, 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 you, but from you in your special capacity 
 of being writteiv-io, 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 tak- 
 ing 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 ovm books, and Mary 
 Howitt's books, and at the end of it — good bye, and I hope 
 
56 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Mat 3 
 
 tere 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 caimot 
 do all; seeing nothing, getting, enjoying nothing, where 
 there is no seeing and getting and enjoying ivJioUy — and in 
 this case, moreover, you are you, and know something 
 about me, if not much, and have read Bos on the art of 
 supplying Ellipses, and (after, particularly, I have con- 
 fessed all this, why and how it has been) you will subaudire 
 when I pull out my Medifeval-Gothic-Architectural-Manu- 
 script (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 of man's, which I 
 never professed to be. Now you see how I came to say 
 some nonsense (I very vaguely think loliat) 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 tlmt 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 in- 
 stance 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 57 
 
 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 them, those tree and flower loving creatures, pick 
 out of our North poetry a notion of what our 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 
 
 Wien one should find those globes of deep red gold — 
 Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear. 
 Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. 
 
 BO that when my Uncle walked into a sorb-tree, not to tum- 
 ble 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 fete only to 
 see the blessed King's Volanti, or livery servants all in 
 their best; as though heaven opened; and would not I en- 
 gage to bring the whole of the Piano (of Sorrento) in like- 
 ness 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, 
 threv/ 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 
 fised stars before my time ; this world has not escaped me, 
 thank God; and — what other people say is the best of it, 
 
58 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BROWNING [May 3 
 
 may not escape me after all, thougli until so very lately I 
 made up my mind to do without it; — perhaps, on that ac- 
 count, 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 go, 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 you, at all 
 events, — of whom then? Bo 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 Bomances. 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 do know the printed little part of me, 
 I should not be sorry if, in justice, you knew all I have 
 really done, — vmtten in the portfolio there, — though that 
 would be far enough from this me, that wishes to you now. 
 I should like to write something in concert with you, how 
 I would try ! 
 
 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, 'that ' which I have, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 59 
 
 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 could 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 teU me who was the ' flatterer, ' and 
 how he never was 
 
 Tours 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday— and Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, May 6, 1845.] 
 
 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 reasona- 
 bleness of it in the meantime, when we all know that think- 
 ing, 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. Tou have to 
 live your own personal life, and also Luria's life — and 
 therefore you should sleep for both. It is logical indeed — 
 
60 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNDSTG [May 6 
 
 and rational, . . whicli 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 'good- 
 natured body ' as you like, . . it is only a seeming good- 
 nature ! Bodies bear malice in a terrible way, be very sure I 
 — appear mild and smiling for a few short years, and then 
 . . out with a cold steel; and the soul has it, ' with a ven- 
 geance,' . . according to the phrase ! Tou wiU 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 neces- 
 sary as the other. 
 
 This is the first thing I have to say. The next is a 
 question. Wliat do you mean about your manuscripts . . 
 about 'Saul ' and the portfolio ? for I am afraid of hazard- 
 ously supplying ellipses — and your * Bos ' comes to /Sou? i^ri 
 yX(0(7(T7j.' 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? Tou 
 see I am afraid of the difference between flattering myself 
 and being flattered ; the fatal difference. And now will 
 you imderstand that I should be too overjoyed to have 
 revelations from the ' Portfolio, ' . . however incarnated 
 with blots and pen-scratches, , . to be able to ask impu- 
 dently of them now? Is that plain? 
 
 It must be, . . at any rate, . . that if you would like 
 to ' write something together ' with me, 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, 
 
 ' [Aeschylus, Agamemnon 86 : ' An ox hath trodden on my tongue' — a 
 Greek proverb implying silence.] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 61 
 
 about visible darkness, multiplied by two, mounting into 
 palpable obscure. We should not mind . . should we? 
 you would not mind, if you had got over certain other con- 
 siderations deconsiderating to your coadjutor. Tes — but 
 I dare not do it, . . I mean, think of it, . . just now, if 
 ever : and I will tell you why in a Mediseval-Gothic-archi- 
 tectural manuscript. 
 
 The only poet by profession (if I may say so) except 
 yourseH, with whom I ever had much intercourse even on 
 paper, (if this is near to ' much ') has been Mr. Home. 
 We approached each other on the point of one of Miss Mit- 
 ford'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 gener- 
 ous 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 quit© 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 io work it out alone on my own side, 
 
62 THE LETTEKS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [May 6 
 
 since it comes from me : only I will not consent now to a 
 double loork in it. There are objections — none, be it well 
 understood, in Mr. Home'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 be- 
 sides good and generous. In the course of our acquain- 
 tance (on paper — for I never saw him) I never was angry 
 with him except once; and then, J was quite wrong and 
 had to confess it. But this is being too ' mediaeval. ' Only 
 you will see from it that I am a little entangled on the sub- 
 ject of compound works, and must look where I tread . . 
 and you will understand (if you ever hear from Mr. Ken- 
 yon or elsewhere that I am going to write a compound- 
 poem with Mr. Home) how it ivas true, and isn't true any 
 more. 
 
 Tes — 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 exagger- 
 ations — the English spring-winds have excelled themselves 
 in evil this year; and I have not been down stairs yet. — 
 But I am certainly stronger and better than I was — that is 
 undeniable — and I sJiall 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? 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Is the ' Flight of the Duchess ' in the portfolio? Of 
 course you must ring the Bell. That poem has a strong 
 
1845] AND ELiiiABETH. BAUEETT 63 
 
 heart in ifc, to begin so strongly. Poor Hood! And all 
 those thoughts fall mixed together. May God bless you. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday — in the last hour of it. 
 
 [Post-mark, May 12, 1845.] 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 May God bless you always. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 !E. S. S. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, May 13, 1845.] 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter — and it struck me that I should be really disappointing 
 
64 THE LETTEES OE EOBBET BEOWNING [May 12 
 
 dear kind Mr. Kenyon, and wasting his time, if that engage- 
 ment, 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 dons, 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, your 
 self, — if you think I would dare see you, without your 
 leave, that way ! Do you suppose that your power of giv- 
 ing 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 your's? 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? 
 
 I will answer your letter, the last one, to-morrow — ^I 
 have said nothing of what I want to say. 
 
 Ever yours 
 
 Jl. S. 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 13, 1845.] 
 
 Did I thank you with any effect in the lines I sent yes- 
 terday, dear Miss Barrett? I know I felt most thankfid, 
 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? 
 
 Thank you, from my soul. 
 
 Now, let me never pass occasion of speaking well of 
 Home, who deserves your opinion of him, — it is my own, 
 too. — He has unmistakeable genius, and is a fine, honest, 
 
1845] AM71SIdZABETir~BAEEETT 65 
 
 enthusiastic cliivalrous fellow — it ia 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 shak- 
 ing each other's hands in hysterical congratulations at 
 having escaped such a dishonour : 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-lac- 
 quer ' 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 for- 
 get 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 — so, I am not the one he 
 would have picked out to praise, had he not been loyal. 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 un- 
 dertake 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 Mac- 
 beth in the witches' cave . . wherein the apparition of the 
 armed head from the cauldron is Macbeth's own. 
 
 ' If you ask me, I must ask myself ' — that is, when I am 
 to see you — I vidll never ask you ! Tou do ')wt know what 
 I shaU 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 wi'ite 
 to me — not directly ask, at least. 
 Vol. I.— 5 
 
66 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [May 13 
 
 I will teU you — I ask you not to see me so long as you 
 are unwell, or mistrustful of — 
 
 No, no, that is being too grand ! Do see me when you 
 can, and let me not be only writing myself 
 
 Yours 
 E. B. 
 A kind, so kind, note from Mr. Kenyon came. We, I 
 and my sister, are to go in June instead . . I shall go no- 
 where tiU then ; I am nearly well — all save one little wheel 
 
 Sostenuto 
 
 in my head that keeps on its. ^): - 
 
 That you are better I am most thankful. 
 
 ' 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 ! 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, May 16, 1845.] 
 
 But how 'mistrustfulness' ? And how ' that way ? ' What 
 have I said or done, I, who am not apt to be mistrustful of 
 anybody and should be a miraculous monster if I began with 
 you ! What can I have said, I say to myself again and again. 
 
 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. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 67 
 
 Well ! — but this is to prove tliat I am not mistrustful, 
 and to say, tliat if you care to come to see me you can 
 come ; and tliat it is my gain (as I feel it to be) and not 
 yours, ■whenever you do come. Tou will not talk of hav- 
 ing 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 cannot 
 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. 
 
 For the rest, . . when you write * that I do not know 
 how you would value, &c. nor yourself quite,' you touch 
 very accurately on the truth, . . and so 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 noth- 
 ing to see in me ; nor to hear in me — I never learnt to talk 
 as you do in London ; although I can admire that bright- 
 ness 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 yon in any case ; and a 
 friend. And do not answer this — I do not write it as a fly 
 
68 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [May 16 
 
 trap for compliments. Tour 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 that is all 
 put to sUence 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 youynW. 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 imme- 
 diately to return — no, on Saturday, tomorrow. 
 
 In the meantime, v/hy I should be 'tlmnhed,' is an abso- 
 lute mystery to me — ^but I leave it ! 
 
 You are generous and impetuous ; that, 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. 
 
 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 1 know 
 much of such things — but I have heard. Heard from Mr. 
 Kenyon; heard from Miss Mitford; who however is pas- 
 sionately fond of the theatre as a writer's medium — not at 
 all, from Mr. Horne himself, . . except what he has printed 
 on the subject. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 69 
 
 Yes — lie lias been infamously used on tlie 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 'pour rire ' : 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 peers in that chapter — ^but that there was an intention 
 to do you justice, and that there is a righteous apprecia- 
 tion of you in the writer, I know and am sure, — and that 
 you should be sensible to this, is only what I should know 
 and be sure of you. Mr. Home is quite above the narrow, 
 vicious, hateful jealousy of contemporaries, which we hear 
 reproached, too justly sometimes, on men of letters. 
 
 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 nest week at the soon- 
 est. You are to decide. 
 
 Always your friend, 
 
 !E. S. !B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Night. 
 [Post-mark, May 17, 1845.] 
 
 My friend is not ' mistrustful ' of me, no, because she 
 don't fear I shall make mainprize of the stray cloaks and 
 umbiellas down-stairs, or turn an article for ' Colburn's ' on 
 her sayings and doings up stairs, — but spite of that, she 
 does mistrust . . so mistrust my common sense, — nay, 
 uncommon and dramatic-poet's sense, if I am put on as- 
 serting 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 Eed Sea — 
 
70 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [May 17 
 
 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 my friend so, — or said even to my- 
 self, 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 per- 
 sonage by a mutual friend — Simpson blushing as only ador- 
 able ingenuousness can, and twisting the brim of his hat 
 like a sailor giving evidence. "Whereupon Mr. B. begin- 
 neth 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 some- 
 thing 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 did expect 
 to see something different from that little yellow common- 
 place man . . and, now I come to think, there was some 
 precious trash in that book of his ' — Have / said ' so will 
 Miss Barrett ejaculate? ' 
 
 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 no importance, 
 and I have acquaintances thick in the vicinity. 
 
 Now if I do not seem grateful enough to you, am I so 
 much to blame? You see it is high time you saw me, for 
 I have clearly written myself out ! 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 71 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, May 17, 1845.] 
 
 I shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and pro- 
 test 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 uncon- 
 sciously, mean to distrust you ; or, the least in the world, 
 to Simpsonize you. What I said, ... it was you 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 you, and nobody 
 else ! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the 'cutting 
 things ' with resignation ! tJiat is certain. 
 
 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 feel- 
 ings 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 mat- 
 ter 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 wish- 
 ing 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 you ! how different ! 
 
 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 distrust, as will 
 make a dovht, as will make a curiosity for next Tuesday. Not 
 the simplest modification of curiosity enters into the state of 
 
72 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [May 17 
 
 feeling witli -which I wait for Tuesday : — and if you are angry 
 to hear me say so, . . why, you are more unjust than ever. 
 (Let it be three instead of two — if the hour be as conve- 
 nient to yourseK.) 
 
 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 kind- 
 ness, yet attribute such villainy to me? "Well! but we are 
 friends till Tuesday — and after perhaps. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 If on Tuesday you should be not well, pray do not come 
 — Now, that is my request to your kindness.' 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, May 31, 1845.] 
 
 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, right in any thing — (only, not one more word about 
 my ' kindness, ' which, to get done with, I will grant is ex- 
 ceptive) — 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 aU 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? 
 
 I will tell 2/oit unhesitatingly of such 'corrigenda' — nay, 
 I will again say, do not humiliate me — do not again, — by 
 calling me ' kind ' in that way. 
 
 I am proud and happy in your friendship — now and 
 ever. May God bless you ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 ' [Envelope endorsed by Eobert Browning : — Tuesday, May 20, 1845, 
 3-4} p.m.] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 73 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 23, 1845.J 
 
 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. 
 
 Which reminds me to observe that you are so restrict- 
 ing 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 
 you ? If my heart were open to you, you could see noth- 
 ing offensive to you in any thought there or trace of 
 thought that has been there — but it is hard for you to un- 
 derstand, 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 t: i/xot xa\ aoi ' 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 tmkind 
 and Mwgrateful, 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. 
 
 But you will come really on Tuesday — and again, when 
 1 [' What have I to do with thee? '] 
 
74 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [May 23 
 
 you like and can together — and it will not be more ' incon- 
 venient ' to me to be pleased, I suppose, than it is to peo- 
 ple in general — will it, do you think? Ah — how you mis- 
 judge ! 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 
 
 Tour friend, 
 
 B. B. B. 
 
 [Mr. Browning's letter, to which the following is in 
 answer, was destroyed, see page 267 of the present volume.] 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, May 34, 1845.] 
 
 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 generos- 
 ity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance, 
 yet conclusively; and because my silence would be the 
 most disloj'al of all means of expression, in reference to it. 
 Listen to me then in this. You have said some intem- 
 perate things . . . fancies,— which you will not say over 
 again, nor unsay, but forget at once, and for ever, having 
 said at all ; and which (so) will die out between you and me 
 alone, like a misprint between you and the printer. And 
 this you will do for my sake 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. Tou re- 
 member — surely you do — that I am in the most exceptional 
 of positions ; and that, just because of it, I am able to re- 
 ceive you as I did on Tuesday ; and that, for me to listen 
 to ' unconscious exaggerations, ' is as unbecoming to the 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 75 
 
 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 ; / must not . . I ivill not see you again— and 
 you will justify me later in your heart. So for my sake 
 you wiU 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, . . that, I know ! — it is my own praise that I ap- 
 preciate you, as none can more. Tour 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 
 . . now. Tour 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. Tour mistakes in me . . which I 
 cannot mistake ( — and which have humbled me by too 
 much honouring — ) I put away gently, and with grateful 
 tears in my eyes ; because all that hail wiU beat down and 
 spoil crowns, as well as ' blossoms.' 
 
 If I put off next Tuesday to the week after — I mean 
 your visit, ^ — shall j'ou 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 Tues- 
 day week you can bring a tomahawk and do the criticism, 
 and I shall try to have my courage ready for it — Oh, you 
 wiU 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 teU 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 
 
76 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [May 24 
 
 sometliiiig I read f or ' Saul ' — and tlie ' Flight of tlie Duch- 
 ess ' — where is she? 
 
 Tou are not displeased with me? no, that 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 ttTisilence, 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 vexa- 
 tion from my words or my deeds ! 
 
 Tour friend in grateful regard, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 24, 1845.] 
 
 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 — stiU this 
 last is true part of me, most characteristic part, test part 
 perhaps, and I disown nothing — only, — when you talked 
 of 'knowing me ' ! Still, I am utterly unused, of these late 
 years particularly, to dream of communicating anything 
 about tJiat 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 bungle notably — 
 ' language,' too, is an organ that never studded this heavy 
 heavy head of mine. WiU 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 wiU tell you, because it wiU 
 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 
 
1845] and1elizabeth:bseeett 77 
 
 you; just that and no more. I wrote to you, in an unwise 
 moment, on tlie spur of being again ' thanked, ' and, un- 
 wisely 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 rest of me — 
 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 be- 
 lieve you to be my superior in many respects, and feel un- 
 comfortable till you 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, 
 only having ' known ' so much of me as is implied in having 
 inspected, for instance, the contents, merely, of that fatal 
 and often-referred-to ' portfolio ' there {Dii meliorapiisl), 
 you would see in it, (the note not the portfolio) the bland- 
 est utterance ever mild gentleman gave birth to. But I for- 
 got 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 consider- 
 ate? Not that you must too much despise me, neither; 
 nor, of all things, apprehend I am attitudinizing a la By- 
 ron, and giving you to understand imutterable somethings, 
 longings for Lethe and all that — far from it ! I never com- 
 mited 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 oppor- 
 tunities, I who began life from the beginning, and can for- 
 get nothing (but names, and the date of the battle of Water- 
 loo), 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 seK-consciousness, years and years ago, at which 
 
78 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [May 24 
 
 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 the 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 to myself, and beginning, however tremblingly, 
 in spite of conviction, to write in this style for myself — on 
 the top of the desk which contains my ' Songs of the Poets 
 — ^NO. 1 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) lie 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 cZicZ misunderstand me, 
 you said so, and have given me an opportunity of doing by 
 another way what I wished to do in that, — yet, if you had 
 iwt alluded to my writing, as I meant you should not, you 
 would have certainly understood something 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 dis- 
 claimer, 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 79 
 
 certain whip-lash is vibrating somewhere in the neighbour- 
 hood 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 fore- 
 thought, 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) exami- 
 nation, was asked by the Tutor, who wished to let him off 
 easily, 'who was the first King of Israel?' — 'Saul,' an- 
 swered the trembling youth. ' Good ! ' nodded approvingly 
 the Tutor. ' Otherwise called Paul, ' subjoined the youth 
 in his elation ! Now I have begged jjardon, and blushingly 
 assured you ilmt was only a slip of the tongue, and that I 
 did really mean all the while, (Paul or no Paul), the veri- 
 table son of Kish, he that owned the asses, and found lis- 
 tening to the harp the best of all things for an evil spirit ! 
 Pray write me a line to say, ' Oh . . if thafs all ! ' and re- 
 member me for good (which is very compatible with a mo- 
 ment's stupidity) and let me not for one fault, (and that 
 the only one that shall be), lose any pleasure . . for your 
 friendship I am sure I have not lost — God bless you, my 
 dear friend! 
 
 K. Browning. 
 
80 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [May 34 
 
 And hj 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 bum one ' — do 
 you know that? But I never mind what I am told ! Se- 
 riously, I am ashamed . . I shall next ask a servant for 
 my paste in the ' high fantastical ' style of my own ' Luria. ' 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Sunday 
 [May 35, 1845.] 
 
 I owe you the most humble of apologies dear Mr. 
 Browning, for having spent so much solemnity on so sim- 
 ple 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. 
 Tou will find it difficult to believe me perhaps when I as- 
 sure 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 your's; and that to bring '^oofes,' were the vilest 
 of mal-a-pro-pos-ities. Also, I should have understood 
 ' boots ' where you wrote it, in the letter in question ; if it 
 had not been for the relation of two things in it — and now I 
 perfectly seem to see how I mistook that relation; {'seem to 
 see ; ' 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH JiAJiEETT 81 
 
 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 un- 
 fortunately, through reverence for you, and not at all from 
 vanity on 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 you) could be expected 
 to believe them, though said, sung, and sworn. 
 
 For the rest, it is scarcely an apposite moment for you 
 to talk, even ' dramaticallj^, ' of my ' superiority ' to you, . . 
 unless you mean, which perhaps you do mean, my superi- 
 ority in simplicity — 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 did 
 not knoio you. 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 San- 
 scrit, 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 He- 
 brew ' ! — a liberal paraphrase on Mr. Home'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 
 Vol. I.— 6 
 
82 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [May 25 
 
 qualities of the like order, . . I venture to advise you . . 
 however (to speak of the letter critically, and as the dra- 
 matic composition it is) it is to be admitted to be very beau- 
 tiful, 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, to me or another. 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 us of the primitive sim- 
 plicities, who don't tread on cothums nor shift the mask 
 in the scene. And I will reverence you both as ' a poet ' 
 and as ' the 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 interpo- 
 sition ; 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 83 
 
 not suit you, I am not sure that I can see you this week — 
 but it depends on circumstances. Only don't think your- 
 self obliged to come on Wednesday. You know I began by 
 entreating you to be open and sincere with me — and no 
 more — I require 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 
 
 Always and faithfully your friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, May 26, 1845.] 
 
 Nay — I must have last word — as all people in the wrong 
 desire to have — and then, no more of the subject. Tou 
 said I had given you great pain — so long as I stop that, 
 think anything of me you choose or can ! But before your 
 former letter came, I saw the pre-ordained uselessness of 
 mine. Speaking is to some end, (apart from foolish self- 
 relief, which, after all, I can do without) — and where there 
 is no end — you see ! or, to finish characteristically — since 
 the ofi'ering 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 after- 
 wards 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 K.B. — next Wednesday, — as boldly as he sus- 
 pects most people do just after they have been soundly 
 frightened ! 
 
 I shall be most happy to see you on the day and at the 
 hour you mention. 
 
 God bless you, my dear friend, 
 
 K. B. 
 
84 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNINa [May 27 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 37, 1845.] 
 
 Ton will think me the most changeable of all the 
 changeable ; but indeed it is iwt 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 
 yoxi, 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, ifc is something to dread 
 altogether. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 I send you the note I had begun before receiving yours 
 of last night, and also a fragment' from Mrs. Hedley's 
 herein enclosed, a full and complete certificate, . . that 
 you may know . . quite hnow, , . what the real and only 
 reason of the obstacle to Wednesday is. On Saturday per- 
 haps, or on Monday more certainly, there is likely to be 
 no opposition, . . at least not on the ' cote gauche ' {my 
 side !) to our meeting — but I will let you know more. 
 
 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 quite, quite the last this time!) 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 
 
 ' [ . . . me on Tuesday, or Wednesday? if on Tuesday, I shall come 
 by the three o'clock train ; if on Wednesday, early in the morning, as 
 I shall be anxious to secure rooms . . so that your Uncle and Arabel 
 may come up on Thursday]. 
 
1845] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAREETT 85 
 
 self-acorning 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, notwith- 
 standing it, neither to ' choose ' nor ' to be able ' to think 
 otherwise of you than I have done, . . as of one most gen- 
 erous and most loyal; for that if I chose, I could not; and 
 that if I could, I should not choose. 
 
 Ever and gratefully your friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 — 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 * E. 
 B. Haydon historical painter ' which has made me quite 
 laugh; and would make you; expressing his righteous in- 
 dignation 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. Ha j' don being infinitely serious all 
 the time, and yet holding the doctrine of the divine right 
 of princes in his left hand. 
 
 How is your head? may I be hoping the best for it? 
 May God bless you. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, May 28, 1845.] 
 
 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 wiU 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 Mr. Rogers 
 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 
 
86 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [May 38 
 
 of ' build ' in the two Poets : — tlie fact should be put on 
 record, if only as serving to render less chimerical a prom- 
 ise sometimes figuring in the columns of provincial news- 
 papers — that the two apprentices, some grocer or other ad- 
 vertises for, will be ' boarded and clothed like one 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, line 
 upon line, is allowed by as good authority, and may I not 
 draw my 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 &o. &o.' God bless you — one thing 
 more, but one — you could never have misunderstood the 
 ashing for the letter again, I feared you might refer to it 
 ' pour constater le fait ' — 
 
 And now I am yours — 
 
 E. B. 
 My head is all but weU now ; thank you. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, May 30, 1845.] 
 
 Just one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, 
 should be fine — because in the case of its raining I shall not 
 expect you; you will find me at three o'clock. 
 
 Yes — the circumstances of the costume were mentioned 
 in the letter; Mr. Kogers' bagwig 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 sym- 
 pathised with the sighing kept up by people about that 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 87 
 
 acceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bagwig as 
 a corollary after it. Not that the Laureateship honoured 
 Mm, but that he honoured it; and that, so honouring it, he 
 preserves a symbol instructive to the masses, who are chil- 
 dren 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 you for 
 Wordsworth's having worn it first? 
 
 And in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow per- 
 haps? or if it should rain, on Monday at the same hour. 
 Ever yours, my dear friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, June 7, 1845.] 
 
 When I see all you have done for me in this ' Prome- 
 theus, ' I feel more than half ashamed both of it and of me 
 for using your time so, and forced to say in my own de- 
 fence (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 ' comjjaring ' of the text, and the melancholy 
 comparisons between the English and the Greek, . . . 
 quite enough to turn you from your ^O.avepui-nu rpuTzou^^ 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 
 
 ' [Aeschylus, Prometheus 11. : 'trick of loving men,' see note 1, on 
 p. 39 above] . 
 
88 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [June? 
 
 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. 
 
 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 espe- 
 cially, and lies beyond your cognizance, and is something 
 which I must knoio best after all. And it is, . . that you 
 persist in putting me into a false position, with respect to 
 Jixing days 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 posi- 
 tion . . which is not the chimney-piece's, . . is the neces- 
 sity you provide for me iu 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 cannot 
 help being uncomfortable in having to do this, — it is im- 
 possible. Not that I distrust you — 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 coidd not be of 
 you. But if you knew me — ! I will tell you ! if one of my 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 89 
 
 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 dixit Casaubonus ; 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 chose to 
 come I should not be too proud to be grateful and happy 
 still. I could not be proud to you, and I hope you will not 
 fancy such a possibility, which is the remotest of all. 
 Yes, and 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 mo- 
 ment. Why I might as well charge you with distrusting 
 me, 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 vexa- 
 tion to you; but to me would be worse than vexation; to 
 me — 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 
 
90 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [June 7 
 
 little of me personally yet, and that you guess, even, but 
 very little of the influence of a peculiar experience over me 
 and out of ipe ; 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 yes- 
 terday, — 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 yi^t'a rdf ly 
 whatever to this personal me. 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 complaint — I should not be justi- 
 fied in complaining ; I believe, as I told you, that there is 
 more gladness than sadness in the world — that is, gener- 
 ally : 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 good, . . 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 is nothing, except grief ! — which I would not teach 
 you, you know, if I had the occasion granted. 
 
 It is a multitude of words about nothing at all, . . this 
 — but I am like Mariana in the moated grange and sit lis- 
 tening too often to the mouse in the wainscot. Be as for- 
 bearing 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 pur- 
 pose 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 ' superflluity of 
 naughtiness ' and prolixity through some twenty posts : — 
 and this, and therefore, you will agree altogether to attrib- 
 ute no more to me on these counts, and determine to read 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 91 
 
 me no more backwards witli your Hebrew, putting in your 
 own vowel points without my leave ! Shall it be so? 
 
 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 me and not of you, . . 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! 
 
 And one thing . . which is chief, though it seems to 
 come last! . . you will have advice (will you not?) if that 
 pain does not grow much better directly? It cannot be 
 prudent or even safe to let a pain in the head go on so 
 long, and no remedy be attempted for it, . . and you can- 
 not be sure that it is a merely nervous pain and that it may 
 not have consequences ; and this, quite apart from the con- 
 sideration of suffering. So you will see some one with an 
 opinion to give, and take it? Do, I beseech you. Tou 
 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. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Tou 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 my side of the argument — but I 
 shall lose the post after all. 
 
92 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [JitneT 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning, 
 [Post-mark, June 7, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 auOadia. 
 
 Pray remember what I said and wrote, to the effect 
 that my exceptions were, in almost every case, to the 'read- 
 ing ' — not to your version of it : but I have not specified the 
 particular ones — not written down the Greek, of my sug- 
 gested 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 si ij-^iS' azuywv ri yaXa imviSi-^- — to the old Com- 
 binations that include euruy^ — though there is no MS. 
 authority for emendation, it seems. But in what respect 
 does Prometheus ' fare well, ' or ' better ' even, since the be- 
 ginning? And is it not the old argument over again, that 
 when a man fails he should repent of his ways? — And 
 while thinking of Hermes, let me say that ' a"!i5^ /lot StTrXos 
 (jSoh? TzpofflSdXrji ' 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 
 in rerum naturd such another as his predecessor. A few 
 other remarks occur to me, which I will tell you if you 
 please ; now, I really want to know how you are, and write 
 for that. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 93 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, June 9, 1845.] 
 
 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 wiU provide against 
 sudden engagements, outrageous weather <fec., 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 imply 
 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 ! 
 
 Perhaps I feel none the less sorely, when you ' thank ' 
 me for such company as mine, that I cannot avoid confess- 
 ing 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 might really try, at all events, and 
 amuse you a little better, when I do have the opportunity, 
 — and I do not — but there is the thing ! It is all of a piece 
 — I do not seek your friendship in order to do you good — 
 any good — only to do myself good. Though I would, 
 knows, do that too. 
 
 Enough of this. 
 
 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? 
 
 Do recollect, at any turn, any chance so far in my fa- 
 vour, — that I am here and yours should you want any 
 fetching and carrying in this outside London world. Tour 
 brothers may have their own business to mind, Mr. Ken- 
 yon is at New York, we will suppose ; here am I^ — what 
 else, what else makes me count my cleverness to you, as I 
 
94 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [June 9 
 
 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 be- 
 gins 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 
 
 Know me for yours 
 E. B. 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh, let me tell you — I suppose Mr. Home must be in 
 town — as I received a letter two days ago, from the con- 
 triver of some literary society or other who had before 
 vmtten to get me to belong to it, protesting against 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 re- 
 turned no doubt — and as he is your friend, I take the op- 
 portunity 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 acknowl- 
 edge, 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 em- 
 barrassment should arise, for a moment, from your not 
 being quite sure how I had acted in any case. — Con che, 
 le bacio le mani — a rivederla ! 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 95 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, June 10, 1845.] 
 
 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 Friday, 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 an- 
 other 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 trvith. 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 seri- 
 ously ; 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. 
 
 Which reminds me that he knows of your having been 
 here, of course ! and will not mention it; as he understood 
 from me that you would not. — Thank you ! Also there was 
 an especial reason which constrained me, on pain of ap- 
 pearing 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 
 
96 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [June 10 
 
 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. Home, I could have told you, and really I thought 
 I liad told you of his being in England. 
 
 Last paragraph of all is, that I don't want to he amused, 
 . . or rather that I am amused by everything and any- 
 thing. Why surely, surely, you have some singular ideas 
 about me ! ! So, tiU to-morrow, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Listead of writing this note to you yesterday, as 
 should have been, I went down stairs — or rather was car- 
 ried — and am not the worse. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, June 14, 1845.] 
 
 Tes, the poem is 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 
 ' CEnone, ' 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 al- 
 ways struck me as the mystery of music and great pecu- 
 liarity 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 ! — tliat, 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 97 
 
 much union and no fastening. Only of course it is not 
 model versification — and for dramatic purposes, it must be 
 admitted to be bad. 
 
 Whicli 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 Men pi'ie, I will grant it is your right, and begin my 
 liturgy directly. But this is not teasing (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 can: and you are not to mind trusting me 
 with the cacistography possible to mortal readers. 
 
 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, June 14, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 Vol. I.— 7 
 
98 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [June 14 
 
 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? 
 
 I know, I have always been jealous of my own musical 
 faculty (I can write music). — Now that I see the useless- 
 ness of such jealousy, and am for loosing and letting it go, 
 it may be cramped possibly. Tour 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 that it begins. ' Keflection ' is exactly what 
 it names itseU — a re-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 teU anybody how to make 
 melodious verses — let him do it therefore — it should be 
 exacted of all writers. 
 
 Tou 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 ' Luria, ' 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 wiU get the 
 Tragedy transcribed to bring — 
 
 ' To bring ! ' Next Wednesday — if you know how happy 
 you make me ! may I not say that, my dear friend, when 
 I feel it from my soul? 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 99 
 
 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 are bet- 
 ter — look so and speak so ! God bless you. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Tou let ' flowers be sent you in a letter, ' every one 
 knows, and this hot day draws out our very first yellow 
 rose. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, June 17, 1845.] 
 
 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 Spiridion, . . do you remember? 
 . . ' Tout ce que I'homme appelle inspiration, je I'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 radi- 
 ance. — And still more wonderful than the first transient 
 great light you speak of, . . and far beyond any work of 
 reflection, 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 fulness and clearness, and an intense trust in the truth 
 of them which you have not in any sunshine of noon (called 
 
100 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNESTG- [June 17 
 
 real!) but whicli you have then . . and struggle to com- 
 municate : — an ineffectual struggle with most writers (oh, 
 how ineffectual !) and when effectual, issuing in the ' Pippa 
 Passes,' and other master-pieces of the world. 
 
 You will tell me what you mean exactly by being jeal- 
 ous of your own music? Tou 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 — be- 
 cause that, it is hard to set about trying to believe of you 
 indeed. And then, you can 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 your 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 unconav 
 fortably, 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. ' 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 101 
 
 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 is not true of me that I am better, mind ! Because I am. 
 The ' flower in the letter ' was from one of my sisters — 
 from Arabel (though many of these poems are ideal , . wiU 
 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, June 19, 1845.] 
 
 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 respecta- 
 ble. . . I should certainly grow instructive on the pros- 
 pects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if deprived of this re- 
 source. And now here is a week to wait before I shall 
 have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I 
 am thinking aU the while, ' now I wiU 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. 
 
 Why I write now, is because you did not promise, as 
 before, to let me know how you are — ^this morning is mis- 
 erably cold again — Will you tell me, at your own time? 
 God bless you, my dear friend. 
 
 K. B. 
 
102 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [June 20 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, June 20, 1845.] 
 
 If on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleas- 
 ure to cultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect 
 your desire — and indeed the point of the deficiency in ques- 
 tion 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. 
 
 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 — inas- 
 much as nothing does humble anybody so much as being 
 lifted up too high. Tou 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 103 
 
 be very strange (without that) if I who was born a hero 
 worshipper and have so continued, and who always recog- 
 nised 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 impressions go, you understand — and 
 you must promise not to attach too much importance to 
 anything said. So that is a covenant, my dear friend ! — 
 
 And I am really gaining strength — and I will not com- 
 plain 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Upon second or third thoughts, isn't it true that you 
 are a little suspicious of me? suspiciouo at least of suspi- 
 ciousness? 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, June 23, 1845.] 
 
 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 me to see what is 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 flow- 
 ers with, and write you other letters than these — quite, 
 
104 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [June S3 
 
 qiiite others, I feel — though I am far from going to imag- 
 ine, even for a moment, what might be the precise prodigy 
 — like the notable Son of Zeus, that ivas to have been, and 
 done the wonders, only he did not, because &c. &c. 
 
 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 Wed- 
 nesday . . though I hope to do more than that . . youwiU 
 know exactly why it happens. I will finish and transcribe 
 the ' Flight of the Duchess ' since you spoke of that first. 
 
 I am truly happy to hear that your health improves still. 
 
 For me, going out does me good — reading, writing, and, 
 what is odd, — infinitely most of all, sleeping do me the 
 harm, — never any very great harm. And all the while I 
 am yours ever 
 
 E. B. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, June 24, 1845. 
 
 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 aU your as- 
 surances) 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 hav- 
 ing 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 nerves, 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. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 105 
 
 Not (either) that I believe in the relation . . because such 
 things are not hereditary, are they? and the bare coinci- 
 dence is improbable. Well, but, I wanted particularly to 
 say this — Don't bring the 'Duchess ' with you on Wednesday. 
 I shall not expect anything, I write distinctly to tell you — 
 and I would far far rather that you did not bring it. Tou 
 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 
 first, 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 away 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 know — than to be iU, 
 really, seriously — I mean for you to be ill, who have ao 
 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 notv. 
 
 And if I have tired and teazed you with all these words 
 
106 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BROWNING [June 24 
 
 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-apprecia- 
 tions — 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 you 
 know me 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? 
 no — I feel it is not ! — and that 'now and ever we are 
 friends,' (just as you think) /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 me 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. Tes — 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 has 
 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 do give up the writing and 
 all that does harm ! — 
 
 Ever yours, my dear friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Miss Mitford talked of spending Wednesday with me — 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 107 
 
 and I have put it off to Thursday : — and if you should hear 
 from Mr. Chorley that he is coming to see her and me to- 
 gether on any day, do understand that it was entirely her 
 proposition and not mine, and that certainly it won't be 
 acceded to, as far as Jam 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 ! — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, June 24, 1845.] 
 
 (So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that 
 first letter, on Friday, which was too good and true to 
 send, and met, five minutes after, its natural fate accord- 
 ingly. Then on Saturday I thought to take health by 
 storm, and walked myself half dead aU 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 oth- 
 ers — and, it should seem, set at rest a ' wonder whether 
 thy friend's questions deserved answering ' — de-served — 
 answer-ing — • !) 
 
 Parenthetically so much — I want most, though, to tell 
 you — (leaving oiit 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 aU about me, I do think — and that he talks, confi- 
 dently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of — 
 and has 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). 
 
108 THE LETTEKS OE EGBERT BEOWNING [June 24 
 
 So, till to-morrow, — my light through the dark week. 
 God ever bless you, dear friend, 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, June 35, 1845.] 
 
 What will you think when I write to ask you not to 
 come tomorrow, Wednesday ; but . . on Friday perhaps, 
 instead? But do see how it is; and judge if it is to be 
 helped. 
 
 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 lie 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 she 
 will be here at twelve o'clock, M. ! ! So do observe the con- 
 stellation of adverse stars . . or the covey of ' bad birds,' 
 as the Eomans 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 Illrs. Hedley — and thus it must he for Friday . . which 
 will learn to be a fortunate day for the nonce — unless Sat- 
 urday should suit you better. I do not speak of Thurs- 
 day, because of the doubt about Miss Mitford — and if any 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 109 
 
 harm should happen to Friday, I will write again; but if 
 you do not hear again, and are able to come then, you will 
 come perhaps then. 
 
 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 . . ' sus- 
 picious.' 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 12. Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, June 25, 1845.] 
 
 Pomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and 
 see into, but not hearts, — so why should I try and speak? 
 
 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. 
 
 Now is Post-time, — which happens properly. 
 
 God bless you, and so your own 
 
 K. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, June 27, 1845.] 
 
 After all it must be for Saturday, as Mrs. Hedley comes 
 again on Friday, to-morrow, from New Gross, — or just be- 
 yond it, Eltham Park — to London for a few days, on ac- 
 count of the illness of one of her children. I write in the 
 greatest haste after Miss Mitford has left me . . and so 
 tired ! to say this, that if you can and will come on Satur- 
 day, . . or if not on Monday or Tuesday, there is no rea- 
 son against it. 
 
 Your friend always, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
110 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [June 27 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, June 27, 1845.] 
 
 Let me make haste and write down To-morrow, Satur- 
 day, 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. 
 
 What shall I decide on? 
 
 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 — 
 
 Not all of me, however, can change, thank God — 
 
 Tours ever 
 
 K. B. 
 
 Or, write, as last night, if needs be : Monday, Tuesday 
 is not so long to wait. Will you write? 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, June 28, 1845.] 
 
 Tou are very kind and always — but really thit does not 
 seem a good reason against your coming to-morrow — so 
 come, if it should not rain. If it rains, it concludes 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 yes- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT HI 
 
 terday I am not unwell today. And pray speak bona verba 
 about the awful tilings 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. 
 
 Ever yours, my dear friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [June 80, 1845.] 
 
 I send back the prize poems which have been kept far 
 too long even if I do not make excuses for the keeping — 
 but OUT sins are not always to be measured by our repen- 
 tance 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 consid- 
 ering 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. 
 
 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. TroUope, you may have heard, had 
 something of the same nympholepsy — no, her daughter 
 was ' settled ' in the neighbourhood — that is the more likely 
 reason for Mrs. TroUope ! and the spirits of the hills con- 
 spired against her the first winter and almost slew her with 
 
112 THE LETTEES OF KOBEKT BEOWZsTING [June 30 
 
 a fog and drove her away to your Italy where the Oread- 
 ocracy has gentler manners. And Miss Martineau is prac- 
 tising 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 con- 
 vert. All this from Mr. Kenyon. 
 
 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 saur- 
 kraut — and he 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 shoe- 
 buckles and I believe in the little spirit — dont you ? But 
 these English mesmerists make the shoebuckles quite con- 
 spicuous and insist on them broadly ; and the Archbishops 
 Whately may be drawn by iJiem (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 authentic. May God bless you 
 always ! my dear friend ! 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 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. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 
 How are you — may I hope to hear soon? 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 113 
 
 saw mournfully penciUed on a white wall at Asolo) — but 
 will you tell me if you quite remember the main of ihejirst 
 part — {parts 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. 
 
 After seeing you, 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 effi- 
 cacy ; but the one or two exceptions rather justify his lati- 
 tude in their favour — thus one little sort of dessert-knife 
 did only take o?ie 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 La- 
 cenaire — ' jeune homme d'un caractere fort avenant — mais 
 c'etait un poete, ' quoth he, turning sharp on me out of two 
 or three other people round him. 
 
 Here your letter breaks in, and sunshine too. 
 
 Why do you send me that book — not let me take it? 
 What trouble for nothing ! 
 
 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 rivetting 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. 
 
 If you were prevented from leaving the house yester- 
 day, assuredly to-day you will never attempt such a thing 
 — the wind, rain — all is against it: I trust you wiU not 
 Vol. I.— 8 
 
114 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNING- [Jitlt 1 
 
 make the first experiment except under really favourable 
 auspices . . for by its success you will naturally be in- 
 duced to go on or leave, off — Still you are better! I fully 
 believe, dare to believe, that will continue. As for me, 
 since you ask— find me but something to do, and see if I 
 shall not be well ! — Though I am well now almost. 
 
 How good you are to my roses — they are not of my 
 making, to be sure. Never, by the way, did Miss Marti- 
 neau work such a miracle as I now witness in the garden 
 —I gathered at Eome, close to the fountain of Egeria, a 
 handful of /enne?-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 Eidiculus. 
 
 Well, on Saturday then — at three : and I will certainly 
 bring the verses you mention — and trust to find you still 
 better. 
 
 Vivi f elice — my dear friend, God bless you ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Wednesday-Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, July 4, 1845.] 
 
 Tes — 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 re- 
 member 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? reaUy 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 ' disor- 
 derly persons ' at a glance, I suppose. But you won't be 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 115 
 
 particular with me in tlie matter of transcription? tJiat 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 trou- 
 bled 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 wiU 
 help you to make yourself ill. That I refuse to do even so 
 much work as the ' little dessert-knife ' in the way of mur- 
 der, . . do think ! So upon the whole, I expect nothing 
 on Saturday from this distance — and if it comes unex- 
 pectedly (I mean the Duchess and not Saturday) let it be 
 at no cost, or at the least cost possible, wiU 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. 
 
 Talking of poetry, I had a newspaper ' in help of social 
 and political progress ' sent to me yesterday from America 
 — addressed to — ^justmyname . . poetess, London! Think 
 of the simplicity of those wild Americans in ' calculating ' 
 that ' people in general ' here in England know what a poet- 
 ess is ! — Well — the post office authorities, after deep medi- 
 tation, 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 Eegent's Park on 
 the other, thought of ' Poet's Comer,' perhaps, and wrote 
 at the top of the parcel, ' Enquire at Paternoster Eow ' ! 
 whereupon the Paternoster Eow people wrote again, ' Go to 
 Mr. Moxon ' — and I received my newspaper. 
 
 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 
 vidsh 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 
 
116 THE LETTEES OP ROBERT BROWNING [July 4 
 
 and not the woman. ' Do you not like to hear such things 
 said? and is it not better than your tradition about Shel- 
 ley'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 compari- 
 son — there is not equal ground for it. Yittoria 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 is 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. Jame- 
 son for the world. I believe I was a coward to her alto- 
 gether — 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 
 pro aris et focis, (I, who am so innocent of all that know- 
 ledge ! ) 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 you 
 may do carpet work with impunity — yes ! because you can 
 be writing poems all the while. ' ! 
 
 Think of people making poems and rugs at once. 
 There's complex machinery for you! 
 
 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 mis- 
 take — and I correct my impressions of her more and more 
 to perfection, as you tell me who know more of her than I. 
 
 Only I should not dare, . . ever, 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 117 
 
 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 contem- 
 plated by certain of our own prophetesses . . nor ought 
 to be, I hold in intimate persuasion. One woman indeed 
 now alive . . and only tlmt 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 ma- 
 sonic trial scenes in 'Consuelo.' Could you like to see 
 those knives? 
 
 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 doiibt about Saturday — but it has worn 
 away, and the appointment stands good . . for me : I have 
 nothing to say against it. 
 
 But belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as gene- 
 ral 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. EUiotson's great 
 bony fingers seeming to * touch the stops ' of a Avhole soul's 
 harmonies — as in phreno-magnetism. And I should have 
 liked far better than hearing and seeing that, to have heard 
 
118 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Jtjly4 
 
 you pour the ' cupful of Diderot's rinsings,' out, — and in- 
 deed, I can fancy a little that you and how you could do it 
 — and break the cup too afterwards ! 
 
 Another sheet — and for what? 
 
 What is written already, if you read, you do so merito- 
 riously — 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 much worse — but 
 one writes and writes : / do at least — for you are irre- 
 proachable. Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not 
 written . . or had! E. B. B. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, July 7. 1845.] 
 
 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? — per- 
 severing, the event must be happy. 
 
 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 re- 
 verse rather) — of your discourse? I should like to match 
 you at a fancy -flight; if I could, give you nearly as pleas- 
 ant 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 en- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 119 
 
 ticing simplicity in the avowal of the Treasurer of a Chari- 
 table 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 Treas- 
 urer'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 — 
 despise annual contributors, — we ra^Aer^solicit their as- 
 sistance.' All which means, do not think that I take 
 any ' merit ' for making myself supremely happy, I rather 
 &c. &c. 
 
 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. Tou are the — But you know 
 and why should I tease myself with words? 
 
 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. 
 
 Ever yours, my dear friend. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, July 8, 1845.] 
 
 Well — I have really been out; and am really alive after 
 it — which is more surprising still — alive enough I mean, 
 to write even so, 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 ac- 
 cording to her own prudence and not my selfwill. Only 
 
120 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING- [July 8 
 
 you will not, any of you, ask me to admit tliat it was all 
 delightful — pleasanter work than what you wanted to spare 
 me in taking care of your roses on Saturday ! don't ask tliat, 
 and I will try it again presently. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tuesday. — Was it fair to tell me to write though, and 
 be silent of the ' Duchess, ' and when I was sure to be so de- 
 lighted — and you knew it? I think not indeed. And, to 
 make the obedience possible, I go on fast to say that I 
 heard from Mr. Home a few days since and that lie said 
 — ' your envelope reminds me of ' — z/oit, 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 hisown I had offered with another of his, by his desire, 
 to Golburn's Magazine, as the productions of a friend of 
 mine, when he was in German 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 can't have heard of your 
 having been here, and it must 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? 
 
 My dear friend, I am ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 121 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, July 9, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 h propos de bottes of Home — neither he or any other can 
 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 de- 
 light of playing the Eastern Jew's part here in this Lon- 
 don — 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? 
 
 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. 
 
 To-morrow then — only (and that is why I would write) 
 do, do hww me for what I am and treat me as I deserve in 
 that one respect, and go out, without a moment's thought 
 
122 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BROWNING [July 9 
 
 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 — rea- 
 soned gladness, you know. Or you can write — though that 
 is not necessary at all, — do think of aU this ! 
 
 I am yours ever, dear friend, 
 
 E. B. 
 
 R B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, July 12, 1845.] 
 
 Tou 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. Tou 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 recon- 
 cile 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 per- 
 haps 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, these 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 123 
 
 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 dread- 
 ful 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 light- 
 ning? 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 cer- 
 tain 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 Mal- 
 vern HiUs — 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 fa- 
 ther 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 might have added that wisdom 
 does not come by the alphabet but in spite of it? Don't 
 you think so in a measure? rum obstantibus 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 vari- 
 ous power the poem is . . I cannot say how deeply it has 
 
124 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNESTG [July 12 
 
 impressed me — but thougli I want the conclusion, I don't 
 ivish 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 
 
 I am yours, 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, July 14, 1845.] 
 
 Very well — I shall say no more on the subject — though 
 it was not any piece of formality on your part that I dep- 
 recated; 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 un- 
 derstand this much in me, how you can lay me under deep- 
 est obligation. I daresay you think you have some, per- 
 haps 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 service- 
 able to you; nor set yourself against any little irksomeness 
 these carriage-drives may bring with them just at the be- 
 ginning ; 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 ' Duch- 
 esses ' : 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 0. too, and D. and so on. I wonder wheth- 
 er they have since wanted to borrow money of him on the 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKRETT 125 
 
 strength of his professions. But you must remember we 
 are in July ; the 13th it is, and summer will go and cold 
 weather stay ( ' come ' forsooth !) — and now is the time of 
 times. StiU I feared the rain would hinder you on Friday 
 — but the thunder did not frighten me — for you: your fa- 
 ther must pardon me for holding most firmly with Dr. 
 Chambers — his theory is quite borne out by my own ex- 
 perience, for I have seen a man it were foolish to call a 
 coward, a great fellow too, all but die away in a. thunder- 
 storm, 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 — is, 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 pic- 
 ture of the Virgin, and at every fresh clap she lighted, with 
 the oddest sputtering muttering mouthful of prayer imag- 
 inable, 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 light the smoJce 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 8c?. 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 
 
126 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNINQ [July 14 
 
 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 filss about a piece of pork! ' By the way, what a 
 characteristic of an Italian late evening is Summer-light- 
 ning — 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 gre'en shock-headed acacias, so thick and green, with 
 the cicala's 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 
 singingj 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 an- 
 other — and all the people scream ' la bora, la bora ! ' and 
 you are caught up in their whirl and landed in some in- 
 terior, 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 you, the 
 stranger, do make the best of your way out, with no prepa- 
 ration at aU ; whereupon you infallibly put your foot (and 
 half your leg) into a river, really that, of rainwater— that's 
 a Bora (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 (/ do not) get those. And I shall 
 see you on Wednesday, please remember, and bring you 
 
1845] a:HD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 127 
 
 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 beset- 
 ting 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 /see it, 
 while it is doing, as nobody else in the ^orld should, cer- 
 tainly, etpen 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 scaf- 
 folding is taken down, and while you have to make your 
 way over hods and mortar and heaps of lime, and trem- 
 bling 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 E. B. 
 
 ever yours. 
 
 U. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, July 18, 1845.] 
 
 I suppose nobody is ever expected to acknowledge his 
 or her ' besetting sin ' — it would be unnatural — and there- 
 fore you will not be surprised to hear me deny the one im- 
 puted 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 thunder- 
 cloud, . . (talking of storms!) and even seek no further 
 than this table for a first witness ; this letter, I had yester- 
 day, which calls me . . let me see how many hard names 
 . . 'unbending,' . . ' disdainfid,' . . '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; 
 
128 THE LETTEES OF KOBEET BEOWNING [July 18 
 
 to tlie lowest hem of us ! for I don't pass to the other ex- 
 treme, 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, forme, . . and 
 sliould, . . 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 be- 
 setting sin. If you had spoken of my sister Henrietta 
 indeed, you would have been ;right — so right ! but for me, 
 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 Boman, even in mat- 
 ters 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 — 
 hilt I never do speak falsely with intention and conscious- 
 ness — never — and I do not find that people of letters are 
 sooner offended than others are, by the truth told in gentle- 
 ness; — ^I do not remember to have offended anyone in this 
 relation, and by these means. Well! — hut from me to you; 
 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 holt up to it, and /ar up — because whatever faculty 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 you, not at all from an inclination to 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 129 
 
 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 reason- 
 ably, and understand it as a third person would in a mo- 
 ment, 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 misgiv- 
 ings, you will believe that I have misgivings — you will 
 trust 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 being older 
 by years — 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 that 
 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 foimd it hard 
 work to get into expression, 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 
 Vol, I.— 9 
 
130 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [July 18 
 
 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 re- 
 turn for your kind and generous words, . . which I do 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 Wormwood, . . on the op- 
 posite side of the heavens from the constellations of ' the 
 Lyre and the Crown. ' In the meantime, it is difficult to 
 thank you, or not to thank you, for all your kindnesses — 
 — akYo:; 8k aiya-j. 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 so, is it with me and your kind- 
 nesses. 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. Bather 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, he 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 your will, — more than may be helped. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 131 
 
 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 Hood's. 
 And then, what did I say of the Dante and Beatrice? Be- 
 cause what I referred to was the exquisite page or two or 
 three on that subject in the ' Pentameron. ' I do not re- 
 member 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 Hood 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 
 — iiis quite a passing talk and thought, I dare say ! and it 
 would not he in any case, until September or October; 
 though in every case, I suppose, I should not be much con- 
 sulted . . and all cases and places would seem better to 
 me (if I were) than Madeira which the physicans used to 
 threaten me with long ago. So take care of your headache 
 and let us have the ' Bells ' rung out clear before the sum- 
 mer 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 ! 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Tou left behind your sister's little basket — but I hope 
 you did not forget to thank her for my carnations. 
 
132 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [July — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [no date] 
 
 I shall just say, at the beginning of a note as at the 
 end, I am yours ever, 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 
 stiU? 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 hav- 
 ing predicted exactly the same horror once before. ' I was 
 to see you — and you were to understand ' — Do 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 oc- 
 curs 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 deter- 
 mining, 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 pre- 
 cision that another kind of operator will construct you an 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 133 
 
 artificial volcano with so much steel filings and flower of 
 
 gulphur and what not. There is more in the soul than 
 
 rises to the surface and meets the eye ; whatever does that, 
 
 is for this world's immediate uses ; and were this world 
 
 all, all in us would be producible and available for use, as 
 
 it is with the body now — but with the soul, what is to be 
 
 developed afterward is the main thing, and instinctively 
 
 j asserts its rights — so that when you hate (or love) you 
 
 \ shall ngt-be'Soable to expEiia ' why ' (' Tou ' is the ordinary 
 
 ^-cTSSrare enough of my poem — he might not be so able.) 
 
 There, I will write no more. You will never drop me 
 off the golden hooks, I dare believe — and the rest is with 
 God — whose finger I see every minute of my life. Alexan- 
 dria! Well, and may I not as easily ask leave to come 
 ' to-morrow at the Muezzin ' as next Wednesday at three? 
 
 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 Hood, — blame 
 them, tell me about them, and meantime let me be, dear 
 friend, yours 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, July 21, 1845.] 
 
 But I never did 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 me ! ! — Well ! I will try that there 
 shall be no more of it — no more provocation of generosities 
 
134 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING- [July 21 
 
 — 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 roimd 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. Brown- 
 ing 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 Hood 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 aU 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 sound before. It does 
 to mate with your ' simmering 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 ' Labora- 
 tory ' 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 them certainly, but that the uncertainty of rhythm 
 throws the reader's mind off the rail . . and interrupts his 
 progress with you and your influence with him. Where 
 we have not direct pleasure from rhythm, and where no 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 135 
 
 peculiar impression is to be produced by the changes in it, 
 ■we should be encouraged by the poet to forget it altogether ; 
 should we not? I am quite wrong perhaps — but you see 
 how I do not conceal my wrongnesses where they mix them- 
 selves 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 ' Duch- 
 ess ' ! The world is very deaf and dumb, I think — but in 
 the end, we need not be afraid of its not learning its lesson. 
 
 Could you come^ — for I am going out in the carriage, 
 and wiU 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 Alex- 
 andria seems discredited just now for Malta — and ' any- 
 thing but Madeira,' I go on saying to myself. These 
 Hood poems are all to be in the next ' BeUs ' of course — of 
 necessity? 
 
 May God bless you my dear friend, my ever dear 
 friend ! — 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday MorniDg. 
 [Post-mark, July 22, 1845.] 
 
 I wiU say, with your leave, Thursday (nor attempt to 
 say anything else without your leave). 
 
 The temptation of reading the ' Essay ' was more than 
 I could bear : and a wonderful work it is every way j the 
 other poems and their music — wonderful ! 
 
 And you go out still — so continue better ! 
 
 I cannot write this morning — I should say too much 
 
136 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [July S3 
 
 and have to be sorry and afraid — let me be safely yours 
 ever, my own dear friend — 
 
 K. B. 
 
 I am but too proud of your praise — when will the 
 blame come — at Malta? 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, July 25, 1845.] 
 
 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 your 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 will you un- 
 derstand? 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 whichever strikes you as the most foolish of them., of 
 course must he what I meant to strike out — (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 con- 
 sidered; 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 Wednes- 
 
1846] AJSD ELIZABETH BARRETT 137 
 
 day, 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. Tou will 
 take care? And if there should be a wisdom in going 
 away . . ! 
 
 Was it very wrong of me, doing what I told you of yes- 
 terday? Yery imprudent, I am afraid — but I never knew 
 how to be prudent — and then, there is not a sharing of re- 
 sponsibility 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 unbe- 
 coming 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 
 (Edipuses who astounded me once for a moment and were 
 after all, I hope, bafHed 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 is 
 mine . . if something is of me . . or from 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 liter- 
 ature 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 one 
 particular way it would have been better, — as easily it might 
 have been. May God bless you, my dear friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
138 THE LETTEKS OF EGBERT BEOWNING- [July 35 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, July 35, 1845.] 
 
 Tou would let me now, I dare say, call myself grateful 
 to you — yet sucli is my jealousy in these matters — so do I 
 hate the material when it puts down, (or tries) the imma- 
 terial in the offices of friendship ; that I could almost tell 
 you I was not 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 also — this last kindness. And you 
 know its value, too- — how if there were another you 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 criti- 
 cism, so exactly what I want and can use and turn to good; 
 you know how I would have told you, my you I saw yes- 
 terday, all about it, and been sure of your sympathy and 
 gladness : — but the two in one ! 
 
 For the criticism itself, it is all true, except the over- 
 eating — all the suggestions are to be adopted, the improve- 
 ments 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 cooperate with 
 your intention, and help my work by disputing the effect 
 of any alteration proposed, if it ought to be disputed — that 
 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. 
 
 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) 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 139 
 
 wrote anyhow, almost, to get done. It ia an odd fact, yet 
 characteristic of my accomplishings one and all in this 
 kind, that of the poem, the real conception of an evening 
 (two years ago, fully) — of that, not a line is written, — 
 though perhaps after all, what I am going to call the acces- 
 sories in the story are real though indirect reflexes of the 
 original idea, and so supersede properly enough the neces- 
 sity 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 real life, not an unreal one like that with 
 the Duke. And as I meant to write it, aU their wild ad- 
 ventures 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. — 
 
 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 think before writing — or just 
 after writing — such a sentence — but reflection only justi- 
 fies my first feeling ; I would 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 
 
 Your E. B. 
 
 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 
 
140 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING- [Jult35 
 
 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 regu- 
 lar dole falls and murmurs — 'And, for yesterday? ' — Do I 
 stay too long, I want to know, — too long for the voice and 
 head and all but the spirit that may not so soon tire, — know- 
 ing the good it does. If you would but tell me. 
 
 God bless you — 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, July 28, 1845.] 
 
 Tou 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 . . 
 Iww you are — 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 
 Was it singing, was it saying, 
 
 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 
 should there? And there was something else, which I for- 
 get at this moment — and something more than the some- 
 thing else. Your account of the production of the poem 
 interests me very much — and proves just what I wanted to 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 141 
 
 make out from your statements the other day, and they 
 refused, I thought, to let me, . . that you are more faith- 
 ful to your first Idea than to your first plan. Is it so? or 
 not? ' Orange ' is orange — but luhicli half of the orange 
 is not predestinated from all eternity — : is it so ? 
 
 Sunday. — I wrote so much yesterday and then went out, 
 not knowing very well how to speak or how to be silent (is 
 it better today ?) of some expressions of yours . . and of 
 your interest in me — which are deeply affecting to my feel- 
 ings — whatever else remains to be said of them. And you 
 know that you make great mistakes, . . of fennel for hem- 
 lock, 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 ' if Ijplease !' . . 
 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 pres- 
 ent condition, and that if 1 phased to have porter and beef- 
 steaks 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 re- 
 member with an emotion which cannot change its charac- 
 ter, all the generous interest and feeling you have spent on 
 me — wasted 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 me 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 ! — 
 
142 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWlSriNG [July 28 
 
 In the meantime you do not tire me indeed even wlien 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 pos- 
 sible) than the one I am ending now . . as the most grate- 
 ful (leave me that word) of your friends. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 How could you think that I should speak to Mr. Ken- 
 , yon of the book? All I ever said to him has been that you 
 had looked through my ' Prometheus ' for me — and that I 
 was not disappointed in you, these two things on two occa- 
 sions. I do trust that your head is better. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, July 28, 1845.] 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Tours I am, ever yours my dear friend E. B. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, July 31, 1845.] 
 
 In all I say to you, write to you, I know very well that 
 I trust to your understanding me almost beyond the war- 
 rant 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. 
 
 — To-day I cannot write — though I am very well other- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 143 
 
 ■wise — but I shall soon get into my old seU-oommand and 
 write with as much ' ineffectual fire ' as before : but mean- 
 time, you 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. 
 
 God bless you, my best, dearest friend — think what I 
 would speak — 
 
 Ever yours 
 
 E. B. 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, Augusts, 1845.] 
 
 Let me write one word . . not to have it off my mind 
 . . because it is by no means heavily on 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 hav- 
 ing 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. Tour 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 . . even to Mr. Kenyon . . as to every other person 
 whatever. As you know . . and yet more than you know 
 , . I am in a peculiar position — and it does not follow that 
 
144 THE LETTERS OE ROBERT BROWNING [August 2 
 
 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 ! that is 
 my request to you — or commentary on what you put ' off 
 your mind ' yesterday — probablyquite 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. 
 
 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? Tou can neither work nor enjoy while 
 you are subject to attacks of the kind — and besides, and 
 without reference to your present suffering and inconven- 
 ience, you ought not 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, per- 
 haps, of bringing out your " Bells " this autumn, without 
 paying a cost too heavy! — Therefore . . the therefore is 
 quite plain and obvious ! — 
 
 Friday.- — Just as it is how anxious Flush and I are, to 
 be delivered from you ; by these sixteen heads of the dis- 
 course 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. 
 
 And /or me, no, and yet yes, — I wiU say this much; 
 for 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 unanswerable, if you please — or I should not 
 say it. 'As I began, so I shall end — ' 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. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 145 
 
 And talking of Italy and tlie cardinals, and thinking of 
 some cardinal points you are ignorant of, did you ever hear 
 
 that I was one of 
 
 'those sohismatiques 
 of Amsterdam ' 
 
 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 
 ' schismatical, ' I hope, hating as I do from the roots of my 
 heart all that rending of the garment of Christ, which Chris- 
 tians are so apt to make the daily week-day of this Christi- 
 anity so called — and car ing very little for most dogmas and 
 doxies in themselves — too little, as people say to me some- 
 times, (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 ' means, 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 com- 
 ing 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 fuU 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 
 Vol. I.— 10 
 
146 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [August 2 
 
 wrong of me. I put your roses, you see, against my let- 
 ter, to make it seem less dull — and yet I do not forget what 
 you say about caring to liear from me — I mean, I do not 
 affect to forget it. 
 
 May God bless you, far longer than I can say so. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, August 4, 1845.] 
 
 I said what you comment on, about Mr. Kenyon, be- 
 cause I feel I must 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 that!) — I made my first 
 request in order to prevent your getting at any part of it 
 from Mm which should make my withholding seem disin- 
 genuous 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 re- 
 quest — and supposing I was ambitious of making a higher 
 figure in Ms eyes than your own, — I then felt it ' on my 
 mind ' and so spoke . . a natural mode of relief surely ! 
 Tor, dear friend, I have once been untrue 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 that a precedent, and 
 put any least, most trivial word of mine under the same 
 category, you would wrong me as you never wronged hu- 
 man 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 sis- 
 ter — to whom my appreciation of your works is no novelty 
 since some years, and whom I made comprehend exactly 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 147 
 
 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 that 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, per- 
 fect ! 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, you are a schismatic and frequenter of 
 Independent Dissenting Chapels? And you confess this 
 to me — 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 offi- 
 ciated on that other occasion ! Now will you be particu- 
 larly encouraged by this successful instance to bring for- 
 ward 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 Eadcliffe 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 is 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 ' Duch- 
 ess ') — 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 
 
148 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [August 8 
 
 other, perhaps completely opposite one? If any proceed- 
 ing 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; cer- 
 tainly this 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 earli- 
 est — and by that time I shall get done with these Romances 
 and certainly one Tragedy {ilmt 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 ' Gaterinas ' 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 impaid the 
 real weighty dues of the Law; nor affect a scrupulous ac- 
 knowledgment 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 Eome and Cardinal Acton. For, ob- 
 serve, you have not done . . yes, the ' Prometheus, ' no 
 doubt . . but with that exception have 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 intend to write more, and very 
 likely be praised more, now I care less than ever for it, but 
 
1845] AI^D ELIZABETH BAREETT 149 
 
 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 . . tJiwi- 
 der . . 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 ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 8, 1845.] 
 
 Just to show what may be lost by my crossings out, I 
 wiU 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 re- 
 flections 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 pur- 
 porting 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 enact- 
 ing, in a mystery, both poet and critic together — and one 
 so neutralizing the other, that I took all that pains you re- 
 mark 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 
 
150 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Augusts 
 
 own shadow in the glass, as my Flush used to do long 
 and loud, before he gained experience and learnt the yv&Oi 
 asauTuv in the apparition of the brown dog with the glitter- 
 ing dilating eyes, . . and as / did, under the erasure. And 
 another moral springs up of itself in this productive ground ; 
 for, you see, . . ' quandje m'eface il n'y a pas grand mal, ' 
 
 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 could 
 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 you 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 some- 
 times . . so wide of any possible application. 
 
 And do 7iot talk again of what you would ' sacrifice ' for 
 me. If you affect me by it, which is true, you cast me 
 from you farther than ever in the next thought. Tliat is 
 true. 
 
 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. 
 
1845] AlTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 151 
 
 Now I must end this letter. Did you go to Chelsea 
 and hear the divine philosophy? 
 
 Tell me the truth always . . wiU you? I mean such 
 truths as may be painful to me though truths . . 
 
 May God bless you, ever dear friend. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Friday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, Augusts, 1845.] 
 
 Then there is one more thing 'off my mind ' : I thought 
 it might be with you as with me — not remembering how 
 different are the causes that operate against us ; different 
 in kind as in degree: — so much reading hurts me, for 
 instance, — whether the reading be light or heavy, fiction 
 or fact, and so 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 ac- 
 counts you must know ! Never, pray, pray, never lose one 
 sunny day or propitious hour to ' go out or walk about. ' 
 But do not surprise me, one of these mornings, by ' walk- 
 ing ' up to me when I am introduced . . or I shall infal- 
 libly, in spite of all the after repentance and begging par- 
 don — ^I shall [words effaced]. So here you learn the first 
 ' painful truth ' I have it in my power to teU you ! 
 
 I sent you the last of our poor roses this morning — con- 
 sidering that I fairly owed that kindness to them. 
 
 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 aU kind- 
 ness 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. 
 
152 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [August 8 
 
 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. 
 
 God bless you, dearest friend — shall I hear from you 
 before Tuesday? 
 
 Ever your own 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, August 8, 1845.] 
 
 It is very kind to send these flowers — too kind — why 
 are they sent? and without one single word . . which ia 
 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 ! 
 
 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 con- 
 fess that humbly, and do thank you, at last, rather as I 
 ought to do. Only you ought not to give away aU the 
 flowers of your garden to me ; and your sister thinks so, 
 be sure — if as silently as you sent them. Now I shaU 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 
 your Jew ' say what he pleases of them — and the Wednes- 
 day'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 
 
 ' [' B. Beniamin of Tudela ' added in Robert Browning's hand- 
 writing.] 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 163 
 
 what I am writing seems questionable, does it not? — at 
 least, more so, than the nonsense of it. 
 
 Not a word, even under the little blue flowers ! ! ! — 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, August 11, 1845.] 
 
 How good you are to the smallest thing I try and do — 
 (to sho^lwould 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 ilmt, 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 Eichard 
 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. 
 
 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 abun- 
 dantly, 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 am inside with the lights and 
 music : but what is done, is done, pas vrai? And ' worth ' 
 is, dear my friend, pardon me, not in your arbitration quite. 
 
154 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BROWNING [August 11 
 
 Let me tell you an odd thing that happened at Chor- 
 ley'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 in- 
 finitely 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 cir- 
 cumstances). 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, w'tf 
 America — she had looked over two or three proofs of the 
 work in the press, and Chorley was anxious to know some- 
 thing 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 seem to have 
 written something with a similar title — nay, a play, I be- 
 lieve — 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 Ohorley's AthencBumoi yesterday you may read a paper 
 of very simple moony stuff about the death of Alexander, 
 and that Sir James Wylie I have seen at St. Petersburg 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 155 
 
 (where lie chose to mistake me for an Italian — ' M. I'ltalien ' 
 he said another time, looking up from his cards) . . So I 
 think to tell you. 
 
 Now I may leave off — I shall see you start, on Tues- 
 day — hear perhaps something definite about your travel- 
 ling. 
 
 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 
 buUies 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 nov- 
 elists have of it ! a Dramatic poet has to make you love or 
 admire his men and women, — they must do and say all that 
 you are to see and hear — really do it in your face, say it 
 in your ears, and it is wholly for you, in your power, to 
 name, characterize and so praise or blame, what 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 Bul- 
 wer's beginning a ' character ' by informing you that lone, 
 or somebody in ' Pompeii, ' ' was endowed with perfect 
 genius ' — ' genius ' ! What though the obliging informer 
 might write his fingers off before he gave the pitifuUest 
 proof that the poorest spark of that same, that genius, had 
 ever visited Mm ? lone has it ' perfectly ' — perfectly — and 
 that is enough! Zeus with the scales? with the false 
 weights ! 
 
 And now — till Tuesday good bye, and be willing to get 
 well as (letting me send porter instead of flowers — and 
 beefsteaks too !) soon as may be ! and may God bless you, 
 ever dear friend. 
 
 E. B. 
 
156 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [August U 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 11, 1845. X 
 
 But if it ' hurts ' you to read and write ever so little, 
 ■why should I be asked to write . . for instance . . ' be- 
 fore Tuesday? ' And I did mean to say before to-day, that 
 I wish you never would write to me when you are not quite 
 well, 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 seem 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. 
 
 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 persecutitju I have been subjected to by the 
 people who call themselves (luciis a 7wn lucendo) ' the fac- 
 ulty,' and set themselves against the exercise of other peo- 
 ple'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 car- 
 ried 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 prop- 
 erly 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 157 
 
 Blessington'a annuals . . and who was tlie only other fe- 
 male rhymer he had had the misfortune of attending. And 
 she was to die in two years, though she was dancing quad- 
 rilles then (and has lived to do the same by the polka), and 
 1, of course, much sooner, if I did not ponder these things, 
 and amend my ways, and take to reading ' a course of his- 
 tory ' ! ! Indeed I do not exaggerate. And just so, for a 
 long while I was persecuted and pestered . . vexed thor- 
 oughly sometimes . . my own family, instructed to sing 
 the burden out all day long — until the time when the sub- 
 ject 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 
 niaiserie of it ! For, granting all the premises all round, 
 it is not the utterance of a thought that can hurt anybody ; 
 while only the utterance is dependent on the will ; and so, 
 what can the taking away of an inkstand do? Those phy- 
 sicians 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. 
 
 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 you 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 de- 
 vices — and my father is out all day and my brothers and 
 sisters are in and out, and with too large a public of noisy 
 
158 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [AuacsT 11 
 
 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. 
 
 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 me I do not forget. 
 
 You are too teachable a pupil in the art of obliterating 
 — and omne ignotum pro terrifico . . and therefore I wont 
 frighten you by walking to meet you for fear of being 
 frightened myself. 
 
 So goodbye 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. You 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. 
 
 May God bless you my dearest friend. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, August 13, 1845.] 
 
 What can I say, or hope to say to you when I see what 
 you do for me? 
 
 This — for myself, (nothing for you !) — this, that I think 
 the great, great good I get by your kindness strikes me 
 less than that kindness. 
 
 All is right, too — 
 
 Come, I WILL have my fault-flnding at last ! So you 
 can decypher my utterest hieroglyphic? Now droop the 
 eyes while I triumph: the plains cower, cower beneath 
 the mountains their masters — and the Priests stomp over 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 159 
 
 the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two lines of 
 a legend tliat delighted my infancy, and now instruct 
 my maturer years in pretty nearly aU 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 !) 
 But you know, yes, you 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. 
 
 So be happy 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 13, 1845.] 
 
 Tes, I admit that it was stupid to read that word so 
 wrong. I thought there was a mistake somewhere, but 
 that it was your's, 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 a and o 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 is ' Italy in England ' — isn't it? But I under- 
 stand and understood perfectly, through it all, that it is 
 unfinished, and in a rough state round the edges. I could 
 not help seeing that, even if I were still blinder than when 
 I read ' Lower ' for ' Cower. ' 
 
 But do not, I ask of you, speak of my ' kindness ' . . 
 my kindness ! — mine ! It is ' wasteful and ridiculous ex- 
 
160 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [August 13 
 
 cess ' 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 yom- poetry, if it isn't to be called ' imperti- 
 nence,' isn't to be called ' kindness, ' anymore, . . a for- 
 tiori, as people say when they are sure of an argument. 
 Now, will you try to understand? 
 
 And talking stiU of compacts, how and where did I break 
 any compact? I do not see. 
 
 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 you say. And ' Only a Fid- 
 dler, ' as I forgot to tell you yesterday, is announced, you 
 may see in any newspaper, as about to issue from the Eng- 
 lish press by Mary Hewitt'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 
 dram a- 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, dra- 
 matic or otherwise, is ' nought ' ; but for the prose ro- 
 mances, and for ' Ernest Maltravers ' above all, I must lift 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 161 
 
 up my voice and cry. And I read the Athenceum about 
 your Sir James Wylie who took you for an Italian , . 
 Poi vi dir5 Signor, che ne f u causa 
 Ch' avio fatto al scriver debita pausa. ' — 
 
 Ever your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, August 15, 1845.] 
 
 Do you linow, 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 repeated- 
 ly. I know, quite well enough, that your ' kindness ' is 
 not so 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? 
 
 I remember, in the first season of German Opera here, 
 when ' Fidelio's ' effects were going, going up to the gal- 
 lery 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 enthu- 
 siasm of an elderly German (we thought, — I and a cousin 
 of mine) — whose whole bodj^ 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 greater, and 
 our mild great faced white haired red cheeked German 
 was not to be seen, not at first — for as the glorj-- 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 
 Vol. I.— 11 
 
162 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [August 15 
 
 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 ! 
 
 — Now, you would have bade him keep his arm quiet? 
 ' Lady Geraldine, you would ! ' 
 
 I have read those novels — but I must keep that word of 
 words, 'genius ' — for something different — ' talent ' will do 
 here surely. 
 
 There lies ' Consuelo ' — done with ! 
 
 I shall tell you frankly that it strikes me as precisely 
 what in conventional language Avith the customary silliness 
 is styled a woman's book, in its merits and defects, — and 
 supremely timid in all the points where one wants, and 
 has a right to expect, some fruit of all the pretence and 
 George Sandtsm. 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 is 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 163 
 
 thing as Physiology. Then, that horrible Porpora!— if 
 George Sand gives him to a Consuelo for an absolute mas- 
 ter, in consideration of his services specified, and is of 
 opinion that they warrant his conduct, or at least, oblige 
 submission to it, — then, I find her objections to the father- 
 ly 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 ivill make 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 tear- 
 ings 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 kill- 
 ing his thousands after the fashion that moved your pre- 
 vious indignation. Now is that right, consequential — that 
 is, inferential; logically deduced, going straight to the end 
 — manly ? 
 
 The accessories are not the Principal, the adjuncts — the 
 essence, nor the ornamental incidents the book's seH, so 
 what matters it if the portraits are admirable, the descrip- 
 tions eloquent, (eloquent, there it is — that is her charac- 
 teristic — what she has to speak, she speaks out, speaks 
 volubly forth, too well, inasmuch as you say, advancing a 
 step or two, ' And now speak as completely here ' — and 
 she says nothing) — but all tJiat, another could do, as others 
 have done — but ' la femme qui parle '■ — Ah, that, is this all? 
 So I am not George Sand's — she teaches me nothing — I 
 look to her for nothing. 
 
 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? 
 
 God bless you ever 
 
 KB. 
 
164 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWITING [August 16 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, August 16, 1845.] 
 
 But what likeness is there between opposites ; and what 
 has ' M. ritalien ' to do with the said ' elderly German ? ' 
 See how little ! For to bring your case into point, some- 
 body 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 Ve- 
 netian 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 im- 
 pulses 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 inuBt 
 tell you 1) you talk of my ' correcting your verses ' ! My 
 correcting your verses ! 1 ! — Now is tlmt a thing for you to 
 say? — And do you really imagine that if I kept that hap- 
 pily 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 disquali- 
 fying and paralysing phrase it must be, of simple necessity? 
 So it is 1 who have reason to complain, . . it appears to 
 •me, . . and by no means you — and in your ' second consi- 
 deration ' you become aware of it, I do not at all doubt. 
 
 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, . . judg- 
 ing 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 you will admit that it is 
 the rarest of phenomena when men . . men of logic . . 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 165 
 
 follow their own opinions into their obvious results — no- 
 body, you know, ever thinks of doing such a thing : to pur- 
 sue one's own inferences is to rush in where angels . . per- 
 haps . . do jwt 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 ' Con- 
 suelo ' is only ' half the orange; ' and that when you com- 
 plain of its not being a whole one, you overlook that hand 
 which is holding to you the ' Comtesse de Eudolstadt ' in 
 three volumes ! Not that I, who have read the whole, pro- 
 fess a full satisfaction about Albert and the rest — and Con- 
 suelo is made to be happy by a mere clap-trap at last : and 
 Mme. Dudevant has her specialities, — in which, other wom- 
 en, I fancy, have neither part nor lot, . . even here ! — Alto- 
 gether, 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 tliat so often — so often ! and you 
 never felt it, and never will, I hope. 
 
 But if Bulwer had written nothing but the ' Ernest 
 Maltravers ' books, you would think perhaps more highly 
 of him. Do you not think it possible now? It is his most 
 impotent struggling into poetry, which sets about proving 
 a negative of genius on him — that, which the Athenceum 
 upraises as ' respectable attainment in various walks of lit- 
 erature' — ! like\h.Q AthencEum, 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 pub- 
 lic teach 80 ? — 
 
 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 goodbye until Tuesday, from 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
166 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [August 18 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, August 18, 1845.] 
 
 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 Wednes- 
 day 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 hare possibility. In great 
 haste, signed and sealed this Sunday evening by 
 
 F. £. S. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday, 7 p.m. 
 [Post- mark, August 19, 1845.] 
 
 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, no 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 Eome, whom I must go about with a 
 little on weariful sight seeing, so I shall earn Friday. 
 
 Bless you 
 
 E. B. 
 
1S45] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT. 167 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, August 20, 1845.] 
 
 I fancied it was just so — as I did not liear and did not 
 see you on Monday. Not that you were expected particu- 
 larly — but that you would have written your own negative, 
 it appeared to me, by some post in the day, if you had re- 
 ceived 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 proposi- 
 tion 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? 
 
 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 hoth . . which is a happy state of prep- 
 aration. 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 ' Diony- 
 siaca ' . . 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 . . sua si bona norint . . if during 
 some half hour which otherwise might have been dedicated 
 
168 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [August 20 
 
 by Mr. Burges to putting 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 ' Diony- 
 siaca, ' 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 sub- 
 jects 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 test ! ! 
 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 you known Nonnus, . . you who forget noth- 
 ing? 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 experi- 
 ence 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 acquisi- 
 tion, . . and you, looking none the older for it all ! — yes, 
 and being besides a man of genius and working your fac- 
 ulty 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 
 you. And /who do , . a little . . (for I grow more loth 
 than I was to assume the knowledge of you, my dear 
 friend) — / do not mean to use that word ' humiliation ' in 
 the sense of having felt the thing myself in any painful 
 way, . . because I never for a moment did, or could, 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 per- 
 haps than to be startled and exalted, if I might choose. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT. 169 
 
 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 Eome, ' and commended me for my 
 ' kindness and considerateness ' in changing Tuesday to 
 Friday . . (wasn't it? . . ) shall I still be more consider- 
 ate 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 conve- 
 nient ' 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, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to U. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, August 20, 1845.] 
 
 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 might call 
 another time ! And you are not, not my ' other friend, ' 
 any more than this head of mine is my other 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 land 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. TiU when, pray believe me, 
 with respect and esteem. 
 
170 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [August 20 
 
 Your most obliged and disobliged at these blank end- 
 ings — what have I done? God bless you ever dearest 
 friend. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday, 7 o'clock. 
 [Post-mark, August 21, 1845.] 
 
 I feel at home, this blue early morning, now that I sit 
 down to write (or, speak, 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 waj-- 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 ' 
 — 6 grazioso ! (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 rhe- 
 torical figure here) — you suppose I am going to congratu- 
 late myself on being so much for the better, en pays de 
 connaissance, 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 will, again, wonder at you 
 and admire you, 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 171 
 
 suspicion in tliat kind ' ! But to the serious matter . . 
 nay, I said yesterday, I believe — keep off tkat Burgess — 
 lie 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 im- 
 bedded in Suidas (I think) , and had disengaged them from 
 his Greek, without loss of a letter, ' by an instinct he, Bur- 
 gess, had' — (I spell his name wrongly to help the proper 
 hiss 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 ^schylus 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. Purges, with 
 English verse — and what on earth, or under it, has Miss 
 Thomson to do with him. 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 with- 
 out her leave, than alter this sketch, this illustration, be- 
 cause 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, wiU you 
 not? There! only, do mind what I say? 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 God bless you, — my one friend, without an ' other ' — 
 bless you ever — K. B. 
 
172 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWlSriNG [August 25 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, August 25, 1845.] 
 
 But what have I done that you should ask what have 
 ycm done? I have not brought any accusation, have I . . 
 no, nor tliovLght any, I am sure — and it was only the ' kind- 
 ness and considerateness ' — argument that was irresistible 
 as a thing to be retorted, when your thanks came so natu- 
 rally 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 
 
 Mister Hayley . . so are you . . 
 
 reply complimentary. All I observed concerning yourself, 
 was the comhhvxtion — which not an idiom in chivalry could 
 treat grammatically as a thing common to me and you, in- 
 asmuch 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 ' 
 
 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 live by it as most read- 
 ers 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. 
 
 Friday. — I was writing you see before you came — and 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 173 
 
 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 noi hear you say so?) of being ' weary 
 in your soul ' . . you ? What should make you, dearest 
 friend, weary in your soul ; or out of spirits in any way ? 
 — Do . . teU 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 thinli 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 think. I 
 {hirik that it was not a mistake of mine. And you, . . with 
 a full liberty, and the world in your hand for every pur- 
 pose and pleasure of it ! — Or is it that, being unwell, your 
 spirits are affected by tliat? 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. 
 
 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 
 
174 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNESTG [August 25 
 
 life. Every now and then there must of course be a cross- 
 ing 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 acci- 
 dent (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 overt, 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 conceal- 
 ments 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 hodily into submission . . apparent submis- 
 sion at least . . by that worst and most dishonouring of 
 necessities, the necessity of living, everyone of them all, 
 except myself, being dependent in money-matters on the 
 inflexible will . . do you see? But what you do not see, 
 what you cannot see, is the deep tender affection behind 
 and below all those patriarchal ideas of governing grown 
 up children ' in the way they must 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 Chris- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 175 
 
 tendom, by divine right. But lie loves na through and 
 through it — and I, for one, love Mm 1 and when, five years 
 ago, I lost what I loved best in the world beyond compari- 
 son and rivalship . . far better than himself as he knew 
 . . for everyone who knew me could not choose but know 
 what was my first and chief est affection , . when I lost tliat, 
 . . 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 for- 
 bearing 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 me, the crown of his house would not have fallen. 
 He never did . . 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 loss . . his ! ! For see how it was ; and 
 how, ' not with my hand but heart, ' I was the cause or oc- 
 casion of that misery — and though not with the intention 
 of my heart but with its weakness, yet the occasion, any way ! 
 They sent me down you know to Torquay — Dr. Cham- 
 bers 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, /, 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 me, beyond comparison, 
 any comparison, as I said — and when the time came for him 
 to leave me J, weakened by illness, could not master my 
 spirits or drive back my tears — and my aunt kissed them 
 
176 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BROWNING [August 25 
 
 away instead of reproving me as slie should have done; 
 and said that she would take care that I should not be 
 grieved . . she ! . . and so she sate down and wrote a let- 
 ter to Papa to tell him that he would ' break my heart ' if 
 he persisted in calling away my brother — As if hearts were 
 broken sol I have thought bitterly since that vaj heart 
 did not break for a good deal more than that ! And Papa's 
 answer was — burnt into me, as with fire, it is — that ' under 
 such circumstances he did not refuse to suspend his pur- 
 pose, but that he considered it to be very wrong in me to 
 exact such a thing. ' So there was no separation then : 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 separa- 
 tion. And once he held my hand, . . how I remember ! 
 and said that he ' loved me better than them all and that 
 he would not leave me . . till I was well, ' he said ! how I 
 remember that ! And ten days from that day the boat had 
 left the shore which never returned; never — and he Imd 
 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 cur- 
 tains back that I might see for myseK how smooth the sea 
 was, and how it could hurt nobody — and other boats came 
 back one by one. 
 
 Eemember how you wrote in your ' Gismond ' 
 What says the body when they spring 
 Some monstrous torture-engine's whole 
 Strength on it? No more says the soul. 
 
 and you never wrote anything which lived with me more 
 than that. 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, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 177 
 
 ■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. ' 
 
 Do not notice what I have written to you, my dearest 
 friend. I have never said so much to a living being — I 
 never could 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 — do not ! And besides there is no need ! I do not 
 reproach myself with such acrid thoughts as I had once — 
 I know that I would have died ten times over for liim, 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 ; remorse 
 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 ihen; 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 utterlj'. It is not from the cause of illness — 
 no. And you will comprehend too that I have strong rea- 
 sons for being grateful to the forbearance. . . It would have 
 been cniel, you think, to reproach me. Perhaps so! yet 
 the kindness and patience of the desisting from reproach, 
 are positive things all the same. 
 
 Shall I be too late for the post, I wonder? Wilson tells 
 me that you were followed upstairs yesterday (I write on 
 Saturday this latter part) by somebody whom you prob- 
 ably took for my father. Which is Wilson's idea — and I 
 hope not yours. No — it was neither father nor other rela- 
 tive of mine, but an old friend in rather an ill temper. 
 
 And so goodbye until Tuesday. Perhaps I shall . . 
 Vol. I.— 12 
 
178 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Atoust 25 
 
 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. 
 
 May God bless you. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, August 37, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 most grateful, most grateful, dearest friend, for this admis- 
 sion 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 expecting, — 
 that I shall be tired of you &c.,' — though I could blot that 
 out of your mind for ever by a very few words now, — for 
 you would heUeve me at this moment, close on the other 
 subject : — but I will take no such advantage — I will wait. 
 
 I have many things (indifferent things, after those) to 
 say ; will you write, if but a few lines, to change the asso- 
 ciations for that purpose? Then I will write too. — 
 
 May God bless you, — in what is past and to come ! I 
 pray that from my heart, being yours 
 
 E. B. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, August 37, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 179 
 
 to be definite, . . is it? A singer was sent for as a singer 
 — and all that you are caUed upon to be true to, are the 
 general characteristics of David the chosen, standing be- 
 tween his sheep and his dawning hereafter, between inno- 
 cence and holiness, and with what you speak of as the 
 ' gracious gold looks ' besides the chrism of the prophet, 
 on his own head — and surely you have been happy in the 
 toije and spirit of thesejyries-r . broken^s you liave left 
 themT Wlrere-is tfie'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 re- 
 member them directly, and to go on vsdth the rest . . as 
 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 sun- 
 beam, ' 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. . . 
 
 At the moment of writing which, I receive your note. 
 Do you receive my assurances from the deepest of my heart 
 that I never did otherwise than ' believe ' you . . never did 
 nor shall do . . and that you completely misinterpreted 
 my words if you drew another meaning from them. Be- 
 lieve me in this — vrill you? I could not believe you any 
 more for anything you could say, now or hereafter — and 
 so do not avenge yourself on my unwary sentences by re- 
 membering 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 : — 
 
 For my part, though I have been sorry since to have 
 written you such a gloomy letter, the sorrow unmakes 
 
180 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [August 27 
 
 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. 
 
 Dearest friend, I remain yours, 
 
 E. B. B 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, August 30, 1845.] 
 
 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 after- 
 wards . . which is three days ago, or will be when you 
 read this. Are you not well — or what? Though I have 
 tried and wished 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. Tou 
 could not very well take that for serious blame ! from me 
 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 word 
 . . or line strictly speaking. 
 
 Ever yours, dear friend, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 181 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 80, 1845.] 
 
 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? 
 
 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 kind- 
 ness and comfort, and tell me so. 
 
 God bless my dearest friend. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 I am much better — well, indeed — thank you. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 30, 1845.] 
 
 Can you understand me so, 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? 
 
 I believe in you absolutely, utterly — I believe that when 
 you bade me, that time, be silent — that such was your bid- 
 ding, 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 — this only once — that I loved you from my 
 soul, and gave you my life, so much of it as you would 
 take, — and all that is done, 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, noio, make 
 the truest, deepest joy of my life — a joy I can never think 
 
182 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [August 30 
 
 fugitive while we are in life, because I know, as to me, I 
 could not willingly displease you, — while, as to you, your 
 goodness and understanding wiU always see to the bottom 
 of involuntary or ignorant faults — always help me to cor- 
 rect 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 believe 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 — {tell you !) — what would be supreme happiness to me 
 in the event — however distant — 
 
 I repeat . . I call on your justice to remember, on your 
 intelligence to believe . . that this is merely a more pre- 
 cise stating the first subject; to put an end to any possible 
 misunderstanding — to prevent your henceforth believing 
 that because I do not write, 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 mean- 
 time — Tours — God bless you — 
 
 KB. 
 
 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 duty in the Pisa affair, as all else 
 must see it — shall I hear on Monday? And my 'Saul' 
 that you are so lenient to. 
 
 Bless you ever — 
 
1845] A^l)^ELIZABETir:BSEEETT 183 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [August 31, 1845.] 
 
 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 pro- 
 voked 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 alwajs 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, supijosing 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 1 have 
 said, concerns the future, I remind you earnestly. 
 
 My dearest friend — you have followed the most gener- 
 ous of impulses in your whole bearing to me — and I have 
 recognised and called by its name, in my heart, each one 
 
184 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [August 31 
 
 of them. Yet I cannot help adding that, of us two, yours 
 has not been quite the hardest part . . I mean, to a gener- 
 ous nature like your own, to which every sort of noble- 
 ness 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, un- 
 worthy at least of you, and perhaps of both of us. Not- 
 withstanding 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 sucli failure : 
 the thing I have said, I have meant , . always: and in 
 things I have not said, the silence has had a reason some- 
 where 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 be- 
 lieve 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 my- 
 self 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 also and chiefly for 
 the putting away of . . you know very well what I asked 
 for. And this was sincerely done, I attest to you. Tou 
 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 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH EAKEETT 185 
 
 the feeling on your part was a mere generous impulse, 
 likely to expend 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 so — 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 imconsciously, 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. I7i any case, I shall never regret my own share in the 
 events of this summer, and your friendship will be dear to 
 me to the last. Tou know I told you so — not long since. 
 And as to what you say otherwise, you are right in think- 
 ing that I would not hold by unworthy motives in avoiding 
 to speak what you had any claim to hear. But what coidd 
 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 sub- 
 ject — 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 so!) while you 
 may well trust me 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. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Monday. 6. p.m. I send In (disobedience to your com- 
 mands, 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 aU manner of blun- 
 
186 THE LETTERS OP ROBERT BROWNING [August 31 
 
 ders, you know; what is to be done but have recourse to 
 the parcel-medium? You were in jest about being at Pisa 
 hefare or as soon as we were ? — oh no — that must not be in- 
 deed — 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? 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.] 
 
 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. — 
 
 I had better write no more, now. WiU you not tell me 
 something about you — the head; and that too, too 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 do know that 1 
 know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone's coun- 
 sel * to be composed,' &c. &c. But try, dearest friend! 
 
 God bless you — 
 
 I am yours 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Night. 
 [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.] 
 
 Before you leave London, I will answer your letter — all 
 my attempts end in nothing now — 
 
 Dearest friend — I am yours ever 
 
 E. B. 
 
 But meantime, you wiU teU me about yourself, will you 
 not? The parcel came a few minutes after my note left — 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 187 
 
 Well, I can thank you for that; for the Poems, — though I 
 cannot wear them round my neck — and for the too great 
 trouble. My heart's friend ! Bless you — 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 4, 1845.] 
 
 Indeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about — 
 I mean, they are not of the slightest consequence, and sel- 
 dom survive the remedy of a cup of coffee. I only wish it 
 were the same with everybody — I mean, with every head! 
 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? 
 
 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 my- 
 self and not to please you 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 remem- 
 ber to tell you this time in relation to those books and the 
 question asked of yourself by your noble Eomans, that 
 just as I was enclosing my sixty-pounds debt to Mr. Mox- 
 on, I did actually and miraculously receive a remittance of 
 fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller of New Tork 
 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 vision- 
 ary . . put in for the sake of effect, to make the agree- 
 ment 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 
 
188 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BROWNING [Sept. 4 
 
 nearly as good for something as ' cabbages,' after all ! Do 
 you remember what you said to me of cabbages versus 
 poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me? — 
 of selling cabbages and buying Punches ? 
 
 People complain of Dr. Chambers and call him rough 
 and unfeeling — neither of which / 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 moral- 
 ity 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 iised 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 sufer 
 to a certain extent than be cured by means of those doc- 
 tors !) had some compensation. How are you? do not for- 
 get to say ! I found among some papers to-day, a note of 
 yours which I asked Mr. Kenyon to give me for an auto- 
 graph, two years ago. 
 
 May God bless you, dearest friend. And I have a dis- 
 pensation from ' beef and porter ' el? rob? aimva<s. ' On no 
 account ' was the answer 1 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Friday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, Septembers, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 Tu^Xa? iXyriSa's (and the practice of instilling them) to that 
 medical science in which Prometheus boasted himself pro- 
 ficient? I had thought the ' faculty ' dealt in fears, on the 
 contrary, and scared you into obedience : but I know most 
 about the doctors in Moliere. However the joyous truth 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 189 
 
 is — must be, that you are better, and if one could trans- 
 port you quietly to Pisa, save you all worry, — what might 
 one not expect ! 
 
 When I know your own intentions — measures, I should 
 say, respecting your journey — mine will of course be sub- 
 mitted to you— it will just be ' which day next — month ' ? — 
 Not week, alas. 
 
 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 hence- 
 forth 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 ! 
 
 I shall see you on Monday, then — 
 
 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 alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Bless you ever — ever dearest friend 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Oh, oh, oh ! As many thanks for that precious card-box 
 and jewel of a flower-holder as are consistent with my dis- 
 may at finding you only return them . . and not the costly 
 brown paper wrappages also . . to say nothing of the in- 
 estimable pins with which my sister uses to fasten the 
 same! 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, September 8, 1845. ] 
 
 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 
 
190 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Seft- 8 
 
 the third, and may not until the middle of October, and if 
 forced to still further delay, which is possible, wiU not at 
 all. One of my brothers has been to Mr. Andrews of St. 
 Mary Ase 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. 
 
 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 . . re- 
 peated . . f or 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 constellating 
 against me, and give it as my serious opinion to you that I 
 shall not go. Now, mark. 
 
 But I have had the kindest of letters from dear Mr. 
 Kenyon, urging it — 
 
 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 tJien. 
 
 May God bless you, dearest friend. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 But if your head turns still, . . do you walk enough? 
 Is there not fault in your not walking, by your own con- 
 fession? Think^ of this first — and then, if you please, of 
 the steamers. 
 
 So, till Monday !— 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 191 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, September 9, 1845.] 
 
 One reason against printing the tragedies now, is your 
 not being well enougli for the necessary work connected 
 with them, . . a sure reason and strong . . nay, chief est 
 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 retouch- 
 ing. ' 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 see . . you are not 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 reso- 
 lute 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 . . as 
 I am iwt thanking you. Also these flowers of yesterday, 
 
192 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [Sept. 9 
 
 wHcli 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 so. 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 some- 
 times. If it (the courage) had been prophesied to me only 
 a year ago, the prophet would have been laughed to scorn. 
 WeU ! — 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 /3a . . p^a- 
 piZtuv, 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 paix 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. 
 
 And then I take it into my head, as you do not distin- 
 guish 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 pretend- 
 ing to be ' sketches,' pretend to be like, as far as they go, 
 and are 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 193 
 
 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, . . tlwit 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 din- 
 ner-ordering. 
 
 I have been thinking much of your ' Sordello ' since 
 you spoke of it — and even, I had 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 ad- I 
 ditional 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 Tnade 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 i 
 the connections and associations . . which hang as loosely I 
 every here and there, as those in a dream, and confound \ 
 the reader who persists in thinking himself awakg^.,._ — "•"" / 
 
 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 tliinh wrong, to be sure — but tlmt 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? 
 
 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 himself alivays — which is the 
 Vol. I.— 13 
 
194 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Sept. 9 
 
 hardest tiling for a man to be, perhaps. And what his ap- 
 preciation 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 let- 
 ter — thank you for letting me see it. I admire that too ! 
 It is as ingenious ' a case ' against poor Keats, as could 
 well be drawn — but nobody who knew very deeply what 
 poetry is, could, you now, 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 ob- 
 serves of the want of thought as thought. He was a seer 
 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 itseK? 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. • 
 
 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. ' 
 
 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. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
1845] 
 
 AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 
 
 195 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, September 11, 1845.] 
 
 Here are your beautiful, and I am sure true 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 the face unsketched? Italians call such an ' effect de- 
 fective ' — ' I'andar a Roma senza vedere il Papa. ' He must 
 have begun by seeing his Holiness, I know, and . . he wiU 
 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 you 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 good portrait 
 existed — and this occasion bids me speak out, I dare be- 
 lieve : the more, that you have also quieted — have you not? 
 — another old obstinate and very likely impertinent ques- 
 tioning 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 
 
196 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Sept. 11 
 
 Why, ' lean and barken after it ' as Donne says — 
 Don't expect Neapolitan Scenery at Pisa, quite in the 
 North, remember. Mrs. SheUey 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 sup- 
 pose 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 tlmt 
 sight! ' — Not you, 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 An- 
 gelico, for instance, only painted Martyrs, Virgins &o., she 
 had no eyes for the divine ton-bourgeoisie 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. 
 I am much better, and mean to be well as you desire — 
 I shall correct the verses you have seen, and make them do 
 for the present. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 197 
 
 Saturday, then ! And one other time only, do you say? 
 God bless you, my own, best friend. 
 
 Yours ever 
 KB. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, September 11, 1845.] 
 
 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 even- 
 ing he says, and therefore may mean to visit me on Satur- 
 day I imagine. So let it be Friday — if you should not, for 
 any reason, prove Monday to be better still. 
 May God bless you — 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, September 13, 1845.] 
 
 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 intreat you, now more than ever, to help me and 
 understand from the few words the feelings behind them — 
 (I should speak 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 you, 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 par- 
 ticle 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 love. 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, 
 
198 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Sept. 13 
 
 though long after, ivould I, if I could, supplant one of any of 
 the affections that I know to have taken root in you — that 
 great and solemn one, for instance. I feel that if I could 
 get myself remade, as if turned to gold, I wotjuj not even 
 then desire to become more than the mere setting to that 
 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 all 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 refer- 
 ence to some supposed good in that life which your ac- 
 cepting 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 you 
 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 is, 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 any one of those reasons would impose 
 silence on me for ever (for, as I observed, I love you as 
 you now are, and would not remove one affection that is 
 already part of you,) — would you, being able to speak so, 
 only say that you desire not to put ' more sadness than I 
 was born to,' into my life? — that yon ' could give me only 
 what it were ungenerous to give ' ? 
 
 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 caU 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABlfmBSEEETT 199 
 
 began to look into my own life, and study its end, and re- 
 quirements, what would turn to its good or its loss — and I 
 know, if one may know anything, that to make that life 
 yours and increase it by union with yours, would render 
 me supremely happy, as I said, and say, and feel. My 
 whole suit to you is, in that sense, selfish — not that I am 
 ignorant that your nature would most surely attain happi- 
 ness in being conscious that it made another happy — but 
 tlwbt best, best end of all, would, like the rest, come from 
 yourself, be a reflection of your own gift. 
 
 Dearest, I will end here — words, persuasion, argu- 
 ments, 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 not writing) in 
 order to be successful in the world's sense? I even con- 
 vinced the people here what was my true ' honourable posi- 
 tion in society, ' &c. &o. therefore I shall not have to in- 
 form you 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. 
 
 ' 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 friend- 
 ship is my pride and happiness. If you told me your love 
 was bestowed elsewhere, and that it was in my power to 
 serve you there, to serve you there would stiU be my pride 
 and happiness. I look on and on over the prospect of my 
 love, it is all onwards — and all possible forms of unkind- 
 ness . . I quite laugh to think how they are behind . . 
 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 
 
200 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [Sept. 13 
 
 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 you, the finding such an 
 one as you, utterly impossible — because in calculating one 
 goes upon cJiances, not on providence — how could I expect 
 you? So for my own future way in the world I have al- 
 ways 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 ap- 
 pointment, and who can, if necessary, groom a horse not 
 so badly, or at aU events would rather do it all day long 
 than succeed Mr. Fitzroy Kelly in the Solicitor-General- 
 ship, — such an one need not very much concern himself be- 
 yond 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 do 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 Napoleon ' ! So may one make money, if one does not 
 live in a house in a row, and feel impelled to take the Prin- 
 cess's Theatre for a laudable development and exhibition of 
 one's faculty. 
 
 Take the sense of all this, I beseech you, dearest — all 
 you shall say will be best — I am yours — 
 
 Yes, Yours ever. God bless you for all you have been, 
 and are, and wiU certainly be to me, come what He shall 
 please ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 201 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 16, 1845.] 
 
 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 ungrate- 
 ful nowhere — and I thank you from my heart — profound- 
 ly from the depths of my heart . . which is nearly all I 
 can do. 
 
 One letter I began to write and asked in it how it could 
 become me to speak at all if 'from the beginning and at this 
 moment you never dreamed of . . 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 let- 
 ters, and admit at once that I did state to you the difficul- 
 ties most difficult to myself . . though not all . . and that 
 if I had been worthier of you I should have been propor- 
 tionably 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 gen- 
 erous in you — but in me, where were the integrity? Could 
 you really hold me to be blameless, and do you think that 
 true-hearted 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 
 
202 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Sept. 16 
 
 . . 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 would do it . . not, I do . . observe ! 
 it is a truth without a consequence ; only meaning that I 
 am not all stone — only proving that I am not likely to con- 
 sent to help you in wrong against yourself. You see in 
 me what is not: — that, I know: and you overlook in me 
 what is unsuitable to you . . that I know, and have some- 
 times 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, God has put between us ! and 
 judge yourself if to beat your thoughts against the immov- 
 able 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 smil- 
 ing kindness . . 'In ten years you may be strong per- 
 haps ' — 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 could he say but that 
 you were . . a poet! — and I . . still worse! Never let 
 him know or guess ! 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 203 
 
 always . . and cannot be so separated, tliat your happi- 
 ness, in the knowledge of it, will not increase mine. And 
 if you wiU be persuaded by me, as you say, you will be 
 persuaded thus . . 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 teU me 
 ' would silence you for ever. ' I might certainly tell you 
 that my own father, if he knew that you had written to me 
 so, and that I had answered you— so, even, would not for- 
 give 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 rea- 
 son that he never does tolerate in his family (sons or daugh- 
 ters) 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 can- 
 not cease to think much of equally. Worldly thoughts, 
 these are not at all, nor have been : there need be no soil- 
 ing 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 wished to be very poor, 
 in the world's sense of poverty, I cmdd not, 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. 
 
 The obstacles then are of another character, and the 
 stronger for being so. Believe that I am grateful to you — 
 how 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 considera- 
 
204 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Sept. 16 
 
 tion — 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 any- 
 one's, be only yours. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 17, 1845.] 
 
 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 all from your goodness. But be- 
 fore 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 mis- 
 understood, that the goodness outside, 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, the 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 you to see and to 
 declare . . had / seen them, be sure I should never have 
 mocked you or myself by affecting to pass them over . . 
 what were obstacles, I mean : but you do 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 also apprise 
 me of, I know and am joyfully confident that if ever they 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 205 
 
 cease to be what you now consider them, you who see now 
 for me, whom I implicitly trust in to see for me ; you will 
 then, 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 do 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 rec- 
 ognized as such, did reveal itself to me at last, I did 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 ulti- 
 mate order, so I fancied, for the few years more — nor ap- 
 prehend 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 it did not speak, because 
 ' one ' might speak, or has spoken, or should speak, and 
 ' plead ' and all that miserable work which after all, I may 
 well continue proud that I am not called to attempt. Here 
 for instance, now . . '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 luere) — and ' one ' would do all this, not for Qxe play- 
 acting's sake, or to ' look the character ' . . {that would 
 be something quite different from folly . .) but from a not 
 unreasonable anxiety lest by too sudden a silence, too com- 
 plete an acceptance of your will ; the earnestness and en- 
 durance and unabatedness . . the tridh, in fact, of what 
 
206 THE LETTEES OF KOBEET BEOWNING [Sept. 17 
 
 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 ac- 
 cept 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, — all, in the best sense, that I deserved. 
 That phrase in my letter which you objected to, and the 
 other — may stand, too — I never attempted to declare, de- 
 scribe my feeling for you — one word of course stood for 
 it all . . but having to put down some one point, so to 
 speak, of it — you could not wonder if I took any extreme 
 one first . . never minding aU the untold portion that led 
 up to it, made it possible and natural — it is true, ' I could 
 not dream of tliat ' — that I was eager to get the horrible no- 
 tion away from never so flitting a visit to you, that you were 
 thus and thus to me on condition 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 provi- 
 dences . . which is no doubt, the natural and inevitable 
 feeling, could one always see clearly. Your regard for me 
 is all success — let the rest come, or not come. In my 
 heart's thankfulness I would . . I am sure I would prom- 
 ise anything that would gratify you . . but it would not 
 do that, to agree, in words, to change my affections, put 
 them elsewhere &c. &c. That would be pure foolish talk- 
 ing, 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 be- 
 cause I renounced once for all oxen and the owning and 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 207 
 
 having to do Avith 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 tak- 
 ing the whole consolation of it at once, now — I wiU be con- 
 fident 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 " 
 ' lias worn itself out . . time is doing his usual work — 
 this was to be expected ' &c. <fec. You wiU be the first to 
 say to me ' such an obstacle has ceased to exist . . or is 
 now become one palpable to you, one you may try and 
 overcome'- — and I shall be there, and ready — ten years 
 hence as now — if alive. 
 
 One final word on the other matters — the ' worldly mat- 
 ters ' — I shall own I alluded to them rather ostentatiously, 
 because — because that luould he the one poor sacrifice I 
 could make you — one I would cheerfully make, but a sac- 
 rifice, 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 would 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 it; ' the labour 
 not for that which is nought ' — indeed the necessity of 
 doing this, if at all, now, was one of the reasons which 
 make me go on to that last request of all — 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 
 
208 THE LETTERS OP ROBEET BROWNING [Sept. 17 
 
 mind to that, I can be rich enough and to spare — because 
 along with what you have thought geniiis 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 was a little mag- 
 nanimous in never intending to use it. Thus, in more than 
 one of the reviews and newspapers that laughed my ' Para- 
 celsus ' 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 ' did ' 
 for my old French Master, and he published — ' that was 
 really an useful work ' ! — So that when the only obstacle is 
 only that there is so much per ajinum to be producible, you 
 will tell me. After all it would be unfair in me not to con- 
 fess that this was always intended to be my own single 
 stipulation — ' an objection ' which I could see, certainly, — 
 but meant to treat myself to the little luxury of removing. 
 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 now. This is my com- 
 fort, that if you accept my feeling as all but unexpressed 
 now, more and more will become spoken — or understood, 
 that is — we both live on — you will know better what it was, 
 how much and manifold, what one little word had to give 
 out. 
 
 God bless you — 
 
 Your B. B. 
 
 On Thursday, — you remember? 
 
 This is Tuesday Night— 
 
 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 if &o. But if I would leave my card &c. &c. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 209 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, September 17, 1845.] 
 
 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 — 
 only do not blame me, 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 con- 
 testation. 
 
 Sometimes it seems to me as if it could not end so — I 
 mean, that the responsibility of such a negative must be 
 reconsidered . . and you see how Mr. Kenyon writes tome. 
 Still, as the matter lies, . . no Pisa! And, as I said be- 
 fore, my prophetic instincts are not likely to fail, such as 
 they have been from the beginning. 
 
 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, if you do, 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 Hood poems. Would it not be desirable 
 that you made haste to see them through the press, and 
 went abroad vnth your Koman friends at once, to try to get 
 rid of that uneasiness in the head? Do think of it — and 
 more than think. 
 
 For me, you are not to fancy me imwell. Only, not to 
 be worn a little with the last week's turmoil, were impos- 
 sible — and Mr. Kenyon said to me yesterday that he quite 
 Vol. I.— 14 
 
210 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Sept. 17 
 
 wondered how I could bear it at all, do anything reason- 
 able at all, and confine my misdoings to sending letters ad- 
 dressed to him at Brighton, when he was at Dover ! If any- 
 thing changes, you shall hear from — 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Mr. Kenyon returns to Dover immediately. His kind- 
 ness is impotent in the case. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] 
 
 But one word before we leave the subject, and then to 
 leave it finally ; but I cannot let you go on to fancy a mys- 
 tery 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 every- 
 body to see; and for me to feel, who have been a very by- 
 word 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 re- 
 main liable to relapses and -stand on precarious ground to 
 the end of my life. Now that is no mystery for the try- 
 ing of ' faith ' ; but a plain fact, which neither thinking nor 
 speaking can make less a fact. But don't let us speak of it. 
 
 I must speak, however, (before the silence) of what you 
 said and repeat in words for which I gratefully thank you 
 — and which are not ' ostentatious ' though unnecessary 
 words — for, if I were in a position to accept sacrifices from 
 you, I would not accept such a sacrifice . . amounting to a 
 sacrifice of duty and dignity as well as of ease and satisfac- 
 tion . . to an exchange of higher work for lower work . . 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 211 
 
 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 jus- 
 tify your own nature ; and besides, do me the little right, 
 (over the over-right you are always doing me) of believing 
 that I would not bear or dare to do you so much wrong, if 
 I were in the position to do it. 
 
 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 you should care at all for me has been a matter of un- 
 affected 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 living, I thought, when 
 you came and sought me out! and why? and to what end? 
 That, 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 un- 
 touched, — as it must be indeed henceforth. 
 
 I am yours, 
 E. B. B. 
 
 No word more of Pisa — I shall not go, I think. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] 
 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. 
 
 My letter will have reassured you on the point you seem 
 undecided about — whether I would speak &c. 
 
212 THE LETTBES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Sept. 18 
 
 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 1 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? 
 
 It is dark — but I want to save the post — 
 
 Ever yours 
 E. E. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] 
 
 Of course you cannot do otherwise than go with your 
 sister — or it will be ' Every man out of his humour ' per- 
 haps — and you are not so very ' savage ' after all. 
 
 On Monday then, if you do not hear — to the con- 
 trary. 
 
 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 — and he 
 wouldn't; 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 al- 
 together impossible, obviously impossible ! So poor Papa 
 is quite in disgrace with me just now — if he would but 
 care for that ! 
 
 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 213 
 
 this Pisa business, in his abundant kindness . . On Mon- 
 day then. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.] 
 
 But you, too, will surely want, if you think me a ra- 
 tional creature, my explanation — without which all that I 
 have said and done would be pure madness, I think. It is 
 just ' what I see ' that I do 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 that 
 first letter, 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 in- 
 jury irremediable in the nature of it. Had it been so- — now 
 speak for me, for what you hope I am, and say how that 
 should affect or neutralize what you ivere, what I wished to 
 associate with myself in you? But as you noio are : — then 
 if I had married you seven years ago, and this visitation 
 came now first, I should be "' fulfilling a pious duty, ' I sup- 
 pose, in enduring what could not be amended — a pattern to 
 good people in not running away . . for where were now 
 the use and the good and the profit and 
 
 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 
 
214 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Sept. 18 
 
 allowed when not working to rather occupy myself with 
 watching you, than with certain other pursuits I might be 
 otherwise addicted to — tMs, also, does not constitute an 
 obstacle, as I see obstacles. 
 
 But you see them — and I see you, and know my first 
 duty and do it resolutely if not cheerfully. 
 
 As for referring again, till leave by word or letter — you 
 will see — 
 
 And very likely, the tone of this letter even will be mis- 
 understood — because I studiously cut out all vain words, 
 protesting &c. : — No — will it? 
 
 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. 
 
 God bless you, dearest friend. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Something else just heard, makes me reluctantly strike 
 out Saturday — 
 Ilonday then, ? 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, September 19, 1845. j 
 
 It is not ' misunderstanding ' you to know you to be the 
 most generous and loyal of all in the world — you over- 
 whelm 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 did, I should be more be- 
 neath 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. 
 
 I began to write last Saturday to thank you for all the 
 delight I had had in Shelley, though you beguiled me 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 215 
 
 about t]ie pencil-marks, which are few. Besides the trans- 
 lations, 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. — 
 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. Dearest friend, 
 
 I am yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 24, 1845.] 
 
 I have nothing to say about Pisa, . . but a great deal 
 (if I could say it) about you, who do what is wrong by your 
 own confession and are ill because of it and make people 
 uneasy — now is it right altogether? is it right to do wrong? 
 . . for it comes to that : — and is it kind to do so much 
 wrong? . . for it comes almost to that besides. Ah — you 
 shoidd 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 teased a little 
 into taking both. And if you will not take them here . . 
 or not so effectually as in other places ; lohy not go ivith 
 your Italian friends? Have you thought of it at all? 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 will 
 do that . . even though for the mere purpose of self-satis- 
 faction. 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 will speaJc — 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 
 
216 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Sept. 34 
 
 not be right of me. And perhaps after all we may gain 
 the point lawfully ; and if not . . at the worst . . the win- 
 ter 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. 
 
 But you, . . 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. 
 
 You shall hear when there is any more to say. May 
 God bless you, dearest friend ! I am ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 "Wednesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] 
 
 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. Tou shall never 
 have to intimate twice to me that such an insignificant 
 thing, even, as the taking exercise should be done. Be- 
 sides, I have many motives now for wishing to continue 
 well. But Italy jMS^ now — Oh, no! My friends would go 
 through Pisa, too. 
 
 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 ! 
 
1845] A]^D ELIZABETH BAEEETT 217 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The Theatricals ' went off ' with great eclat, 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 char- 
 acter's key note too gravely, I thought; beginning with cer- 
 tainty, rather than mere suspicion, of evil. Dickens' ' Bo- 
 badil ' was capital — with perhaps a little too much of the 
 consciousness of entire cowardice . . which I don't so will- 
 ingly 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, in- 
 deed, and were voted good, and called on, and cheered off, 
 and praised heartily behind their backs and before the cur- 
 tain. Stanfield's function had exercise solely in the touch- 
 ing up (very effectively) sundry ' Scenes ' — painted scenes 
 — and the dresses, which wore perfect, had the advantage 
 of Mr. Maclise's experience. And — all is told ! 
 
 And now ; I shall hear, you promise me, if anything 
 occurs — with what feeling, I wait and hope, you know. If 
 there is no best of reasons against it, Saturday, you remem- 
 ber, is my day — This fine weather, too ! 
 May God bless my dearest friend — 
 
 Ever yours 
 
 E. B. 
 
218 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [Sept. 25 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] 
 
 I Lave 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 must be bitter : words have 
 been said that I cannot easily forget, nor remember with- 
 out pain; and yet I really do almost smile in the midst of 
 it all, to think how I was treated this morning as an un- 
 dutiful daughter because I tried to put on my gloves . . 
 for there was no worse provocation. At least he complained 
 of the undutifuiness and rebellion ( ! ! !) of everyone in the 
 house — and when I asked if he meant that reproach for me, 
 the answer was that he meant it for all of us, one with an- 
 > other. And I could not get an answer. He would not even 
 grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what 
 I supposed to bo good, to Mm. I told him that my pros- 
 pects of health seemed to me to depend on taking this step, 
 but that through my affection for him, I was ready to sac- 
 rifice those to his pleasure if he exacted it — only it was 
 necessary to my self-satisfaction in future years, to under- 
 stand definitely that the sacrifice was exacted by him and 
 was made to him, . . and not thrown away blindly and 
 by a misapprehension. And he would not answer that. I 
 might do my own way, he said — he would not speak — he 
 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. 
 
 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 charm- 
 ing the dragons, . . and allows me to be passive and en- 
 joins 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 219 
 
 promises to state the case himself at the last hour to the 
 ' highest authority ; ' and judge finally whether it be pos- 
 sible 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 exclud- 
 ing Pisa . . remember . . by any means. 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing must last — I cannot help it. But my spirits sink alto- 
 gether at the thought of leaving England so — and then I 
 doubt about Arabel and Stormie . . and it seems to me 
 that I ought not 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 right . . to give it up? Think 
 for me. Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be 
 thrown off — that is my conviction. But , . shall I give up 
 at once ? Do think for me. 
 
 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 
 
 Ever yours, 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 25, 1845.] 
 
 You have said to me more than once that you wished I 
 might never know certain feelings you had been forced to 
 endure. I suppose all of us have the proper place where 
 
220 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Sept. 25 
 
 a blow should fall to be felt most — and I truly wish you 
 may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite 
 powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this treat- 
 ment, which I refuse to characterize — so blind is it for 
 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 remem- 
 ber what — to myself, my own happiness, — did I once al- 
 lude 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 evade 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 ' — not hard, when 
 the leg is to be cut off, — 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 cer- 
 tainly as that condition, for instance, by which we breathe 
 so many times in a minute to support life. But there is no 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 221 
 
 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 eilfort 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 
 thint 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 con- 
 sidered — 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 ex- 
 tent . . the hereaftei- which all momentary passion prevents 
 him seeing . . indeed, the present 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 . . difficult, or how were it a duty? 
 WiU it not be infinitely harder to act so than to blindly 
 adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who can not do that? 
 
 I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as 
 they will fall — knowing to whom I cast them, and tliat any 
 sense they may contain or point to, wiU. be caught and un- 
 derstood, 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 ' there is my plain duty ' — easy it is, whether plain 
 or no! 
 
 How ' aU changes ! ' When I first knew you — you know 
 what followed. I supposed you to labour under an incur- 
 able 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 
 
222 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWIflNG [Sept. 25 
 
 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 what failure would now 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 
 tliat obstacle. Now again the circumstances shift — and you 
 are in what I should wonder at as the veriest slavery — and 
 I who could 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 slwill not be again 
 written or spoken, if you so will . . that I should be made 
 happy beyond all hope of expression by. Now while I 
 dream, 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 — 
 ' no more ' — that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Satur- 
 day, I should get Saturday as well — two hours for one — 
 when your head ached I should be Ae?'e. 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. 
 
 God bless my dearest E. B. B. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Tou understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as 
 you propose. 
 
 I am better — thank you— and will go out to-day. 
 
 Tou know what I am, what I would speak, and all I 
 would do. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 223 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, September 37, 1845.] 
 
 I had your letter late last niglit, everyone almost, being 
 out of tlie 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. 
 
 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 you, 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 did 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? 
 
 And now listen to me in turn. Tou have touched me 
 more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched 
 me — my heart was full when you came here to-day. Hence- 
 forward 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. 
 
224 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Sept. 27 
 
 I say this to you without drawback and reserve, because it 
 is all I am able to say, and perhaps all I shall 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 . . ' unen- 
 tangled ' (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. 
 Tou may force me to feel: . . but you cannot force me to 
 think contrary to my first thought . . that it were better 
 for you to forget me at once in one relation. And if better 
 ioiyou, can it be bad for me? which flings me down on the 
 stone-pavement of the logicians. 
 
 And now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget after- 
 wards 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 today — It shall be for another day — and may 
 God bless you on this and on those that come after, my 
 dearest friend. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, Septembers?, 1845.] 
 
 Think for me, speak for me, my dearest, my own ! You 
 that are all great-heartedness and generosity, do that one 
 more generous thing? 
 
 God bless you for 
 
 R. B. 
 
 What can it be you ask of me ! — ' a boon ' — once my 
 answer to that had been the plain one — but now . . when 
 I have better experience of — ■ 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 225 
 
 No, now I have best experience of how yon understand 
 my interests ; that at last we hoth know what is my true 
 good — so ask, ask ! My own, now ! For there it is ! — oh, 
 do not fear I am ' entangled' — 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 ! 
 
 What is it you ask of me, this first asking? 
 
 R B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, September 39, 1845.] 
 
 Then jflrsi, . . first, I ask you not to misunderstand. 
 Because we do not . . no, we do not . . agree (but dis- 
 agree) as to ' what is your true good ' . . but disagree, and 
 as widely as ever indeed. 
 
 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 per- 
 haps you can't grant it if you try — and 1 cannot guess. 
 
 Cabins and berths aU taken in the Malta steamer for 
 both third and twentieth of October ! see what dark lan- 
 terns 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 . . un- 
 less 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. 
 
 Don't think too hardly of poor Papa. Tou 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. 
 
 Are you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and try- 
 ing 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 
 Vol. I.— 15 
 
226 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Sept. 29 
 
 seventh is the more probable of those two. But now you 
 have done with me until Tuesday. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Poat-mark, October 1, 1845.] 
 
 I have read to the last line of your ' Eosicrucian ' ; and 
 my scepticism grew and grew through Hume's process of 
 doubtful doubts, and at last rose to the full stature of incre- 
 dulity . . 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 tlmt 
 down as 1548 . .) well! and on comparing these dates in 
 these two volumes before my eyes, I find that your Eosi- 
 crucian was ' printed for Stockdale ' in 1822, and that Shel- 
 ley died in the July of the same year ! ! — There, is a vindi- 
 cating fact for you ! And unless the ' Eosicrucian ' 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 notwithstand- 
 ing, from the intense absurdity of the whole composition 
 . . descriptions . . sentiments . . and morals. 
 
 Judge yourself if I had not better say ' No ' about the 
 cloak ! I would take it if you wished such a kindness to 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 227 
 
 me — and altliougli you might find it very useful to your- 
 self . . or to your mother or sister . . still if you wished 
 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 talk- 
 ers there are in this house, and what would be talked — or 
 that it is not worth while to provoke it aU? And Papa, 
 knowing it, would not like it — and altogether it is far bet- 
 ter, 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. 
 
 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 Indepen- 
 dent 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 dont 
 let me be bringing you into vexation. It need not be of 
 MS. rarity. 
 
 You are not better . . really . . I fear. And your 
 mother's being ill affects you more than you like to admit, 
 I fear besides. WiU you, when you write, say how both 
 are . . nothing extenuating, you know. May God bless 
 you, my dearest friend. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, October 3, 1845.] 
 
 WeU, let us hope against hope in the sad matter of the 
 novel — yet, yet, — it is by Shelley, if you will have the 
 truth — as I happen to Tmow — proof last being that Leigh 
 
228 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 3 
 
 Hunt told me lie 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 Tues- 
 day, 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 sus- 
 pect the title-page is all that boasts such novelty, — see if 
 the hook, the inside leaves, be not older evidently ! — a com- 
 mon 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 ' Eeminiscences ' or whatever 
 she calls them . . the ' Guistrozzi ' was certainly ' 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 lie dashed cm, the floor ' — (that is my 
 pet-line . . because the ' chill dew ' of a place not com- 
 monly 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 ! 
 
 — From ' chill dew ' I come to the cloak — you are quite 
 right — and I give up that fancy. Will you, then, take one 
 more precaution when all proper safe-guards have been 
 adopted; and, when everything is sure, contrive some one 
 sureness besides, against cold or wind or sea-air; and say 
 ' tJiis — for the cloak which is not here, and to help the 
 heart's wish which is, ' — so I shall be there palpably. Will 
 you do this? Tell me you will to-morrow — and tell me all 
 good news. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARKETT 229 
 
 My Mother suffers still . . I hope she is no worse — 
 but a little better — certainly better. I am better too, in 
 my unimportant way. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, October 6, 1845.] 
 
 Tuesday is given up in full council. The thing is be- 
 yond doubting of, as George says and as you thought yes- 
 terday. 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 ad- 
 vantages of the new plan if not the very chief (as I see it) 
 is just in the delay. 
 
 Tour 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 pre- 
 fixing some word of introduction, as other people do, you 
 know, . . a title . . a name? Tou 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 
 
230 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Oct. 6 
 
 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 
 Oh, to be in England 
 
 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 ob- 
 served 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. 
 
 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 con- 
 fession? And now? — ^And your mother? 
 
 Tes — I promise! And so, . . Elijah 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. 
 Ever yours. 
 
 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 
 aU this wind, to judge of it fairly. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, October 6, 1845.]* 
 
 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 then the plan becomes really 
 objection-proof, so far as mortal plans go. But now you 
 must think all the boldlier about whatever difficulties re- 
 main, just because they are so much the fewer. It is cold 
 already in the mornings and evenings — cold and (this 
 morning) foggy — ^I did not ask if you continue to go out 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 231 
 
 from time to time . . I am sure you should, — 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 stand when possible — get all the 
 strength ready, now that so much is to be spent. Oh, if 
 I were by you ! 
 
 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 shall be there ! . . I am much better to-day ; and 
 my mother better — and to-morrow I shall see you — So 
 come good things together ! 
 
 Dearest — till to-morrow and ever I am yours, wholly 
 yours — May God bless you ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Tou do not ask me that ' boon ' — why is that? — Be- 
 sides, I have my own real boons to ask too, as you will 
 inevitably find, and I shall perhaps get heart by your ex- 
 ample. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, October 7, 1845.] 
 Ah but the good things do not come together — for just 
 as your letter comes I am driven to asking you to leave 
 Tuesday for "Wednesday. 
 
 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 Wednesday unless I hear to the con- 
 trary 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 
 
232 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 7 
 
 kind as lie is — but lie may not come after all to-mon-ow — • 
 so it is not grudging tlie obolus to Belisarius, but the 
 squandering of the last golden days at the bottom of the 
 purse. 
 
 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 that, 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 ! 
 
 And yours every day. 
 
 Tou understand. Wednesday — if nothing to the con- 
 trary. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 13— Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, Octobers, 1845.] 
 
 Well, dearest, at all events I get up with the assurance 
 I shall see you, and go on till the fatal llj p.m. believing 
 in the same, and then, if after all there does come such a 
 note as this with its instructions, why, first, it is 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, putting off yesterday, I dared put off (on 
 your part) Friday to Saturday . . while now . . what shall 
 be said to that ? 
 
 Dear Mr. Kenyon to be the smiling inoonscious ob- 
 stacle to any pleasure of mine, if it were merely pleasure ! 
 
 But I want to catch our next post — to-morrow, then, 
 excepting what is to be excepted ! 
 
 Bless you, my dearest — 
 Tour own 
 
 E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 233 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, October 8, 1845.] 
 
 Mr. Kenyon never came. My sisters met him in the 
 street, and he had been ' detained all day in the city and 
 woidd 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, wiU you come then? In the case of an ob- 
 stacle, you shall hear. And it is not (in the meantime) 
 my fault — now is it? I have been quite enough vexed 
 about it, indeed. 
 
 Did the Monday work work harm to the head, I won- 
 der? 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 tm- 
 philanthropic of me perhaps, . . "> fUrare ,- 
 
 Be sure that I shall be ' bold ' when the time for going 
 comes — and both bold and capable of the effort. I am de- 
 sired 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 stay 
 in England. And why is it that I feel to-night more than 
 ever almost, as if I should stay in England? Who can 
 tell? 7 can teU one thing. If I stay, it will not be from 
 a failure in my resolution — that will not be — shall 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-lamb- 
 ishness.' 
 
 Then, on Thursday! . . imless something happens 
 
234 THE LETTEKS OP EOBEET BROWNING [Oct. 8 
 
 to Thursday . . and I shall write in that case. And I 
 trust to you (as always) to attend to your own conven- 
 ience — just as you may trust to me to remember my own 
 ' boon.' Ah — you are curious, I think! Which is scarce- 
 ly wise of you — because it may, you know, be the roc's egg 
 after all. But no, it isn't — I will say just so much. And 
 besides I did say that it was a ' restitution, ' which limits 
 the guesses if it does not put an end to them, Unguess- 
 able, I choose it to be. 
 
 And now I feel as if I should not stay in England. 
 Which is the diiference between one five minutes and an- 
 other. May God bless you. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, October 11, 1845.] 
 
 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 cur- 
 tain 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 alto- 
 gether from the delay . . and that ' the cabins will there- 
 fore be taken ' and the ' circular bills ' out of reach ! He 
 said that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to 
 ' krr,out ' me every day — didn't he? 
 
 Well — George will probably speak before he leaves 
 town, which will be on Monday ! and now that the hour 
 approaches, I do feel as if the house stood upon gun- 
 powder, and as if I held GuyFawkes'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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 235 
 
 will be sufficient, and thrown by one hand just where the 
 wheel should turn, . . that, I see — and you will, in a 
 few days. 
 
 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? 
 
 To show the significance of the omission of those even- 
 ing or rather night visits of Papa's — for they came some- 
 times at eleven, and sometimes at twelve — I will teU you 
 that he used to sit and talk in them, and then always 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 expres- 
 sively significant. Not that I pretend to complain, nor to 
 have reason to complain. One should not be grateful for 
 kindness, only while it lasts : tliat would be a short-breathed 
 gratitude. I just tell you the fact, proving that it cannot 
 be accidental 
 
 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 CoronEi . . 
 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 
 
236 THE LETTEES OF KOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 11 
 
 being tired again. I can't be tired, and won't be tired, 
 you see. 
 
 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, tiU to-day Saturday : and the doc- 
 tors 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 — that 
 must be out of the question. May God bless you — I am 
 quite heavy-hearted to-day, but never less yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, October 13, 1845.] 
 
 These are bad news, dearest — all bad, except the en- 
 during comfort of your regard; the illness of your brother 
 is worst . . that would 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. 
 
 If after all you do not 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 mis- 
 take 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 aU has been 
 made plain and straight up to this strange and sad inter- 
 position like a bar. You have done your part, at least — 
 with all that forethought and counsel from friends and ade- 
 quate judges of the case — ^so, if the bar wiU not move, you 
 will consider — will you not, dearest? — where one may best 
 encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 237 
 
 fine weather. Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Ken- 
 yon suggested, or elsewhere? Oh, these vain wishes . . 
 the will here, and no means ! 
 
 My life is bound up with yours — my own, first and last 
 love. Wliat wonder if I feared to tire you — I who, know- 
 ing 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 aU 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 Tcnow 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 
 /in Pisa — well, and it all would amount to nothing, infi- 
 nitely 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 have done — to be sure, one word in- 
 cludes many or all . . but I have not said . . what I will 
 not even even now say . . you will hiow — in God's time 
 to which I trust. 
 
 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 inquiries, that your poems continued to sell ' singu- 
 larly well ' — they would ' end in bringing a clear profit, ' 
 he said. I thought to catch him, and ask if they hxd done 
 so . . ' Oh ; not at the beginning . . it takes more time ' 
 —he answered. On Thursday I saw Moxon — he spoke 
 
238 THE LETTEES OF KOBEKT BEOWNING [Oct. 13 
 
 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 pen- 
 sion, £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. 
 
 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 the evening 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 ar- 
 rive in Town at noon, should not prove satisfactory. So I 
 calculated times, and found I could be at Paris to-morrow, 
 and back again, certainly 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 aU 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. 
 
 And so, I shall hear from you to-morrow . . that is, 
 you will write tlien, telling me all about your brother. As 
 for what you say, with the kindest intentions, ' of fever- 
 oontagion ' and keeping away on Wednesday on that ac- 
 count, it is indeed ' out of the question, ' — for a first reason 
 (which dispenses with any second) because I disbelieve al- 
 gether in contagion from fevers, and especially from typhus 
 
1845] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 239 
 
 fevers — as do much better-informed men tlian myself — I 
 speak quite advisedly. If there should be only that reason, 
 therefore, you wiU not deprive me of the happiness of see- 
 ing you next Wednesday. 
 
 I am not well — have a cold, influenza or some unpleas- 
 ant thing, but am better than yesterday — My mother is 
 much better, I think (she and my sister are resolute non- 
 contagionists, mind you that !) 
 
 God bless you and all you love ! dearest, I am your 
 
 B. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, October 14, 1845.] 
 
 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 yet . . 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 you would do . . just as you are unlike 
 Mr. Kenyon. And you are 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 
 aU. 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 feel 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 
 be has known what mental inspiration is ! And not more 
 
240 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 14 
 
 than he has known what the strife of the heart is . . with 
 all his tenderness and sensibility. He seems to me to 
 evade pain, and where he suffers at all to do so rather neg- 
 atively 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 indif- 
 ferentism) 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 suimy 
 side of the street — though never inclined to forget the blind 
 man at the corner. Ah, dear Mr. Kenyon : he is magnani- 
 mous in toleration, and excellent in sympathy — and he has 
 the love of beauty and the reverence of genius — but the 
 faculty of worship 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, hold- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Sunday. — 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 mu^^h 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 it 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, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 241 
 
 aaid I who am a coward Bhrink 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. Tou promise? But I shall hear from you be- 
 fore then, and oftener than once, and you wiU 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 choose — and if you are disappointed about 
 Wednesday (if it is not vain in me to talk of disappoint- 
 ments) why do with Wednesday as you think best . . al- 
 ways understanding that there's no risk of infection. 
 
 Monday. — 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 do not go to Italy . . 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 dis- 
 pleasure 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 bring- 
 ing others into difficulty. The very kindness and good- 
 ness with which they desire me (both my sisters) ' not to 
 think of them, ' naturally makes me think more of them. 
 Vol. I.— 16 
 
242 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 14 
 
 And so, tell me that I am not wrong in taking up my chain 
 again and acquiescing in this hard necessity. The bitter- 
 est ' fact ' of all is, that I had believed Papa to have loved 
 me more than he obviously does : but I never regret know- 
 ledge , . I mean I never would wnknow 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 . . you ? Then 
 ilmt 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 / was afraid — 
 and if I am not ashamed for that, why at least I am, for 
 being Idclw about Wednesday, when you thought of hurry- 
 ing back from Paris only for it ! You could think that ! — 
 You can 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 is 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 pro- 
 posed in vain — and any part of England would be as ob- 
 jectionable as Italy, and not more advantageous to me 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 : and I 
 shall he here for your November, remeniber. 
 
 And now that you are not well, will you take care? and 
 not come on Wednesday unless you are better? and never 
 ^gain bring me ivetjknoers, which probably did all the harm 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 243 
 
 on Thursday? I was afraid for you then, though I said 
 nothing. May God bless you. 
 
 Ever yours I am — your own. 
 
 Ninety is not a high pulse . . f or 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. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, October 14, 1845.] 
 
 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 you have to bear it ; any other person could not, and 
 you will, I know, knowing you — will be well this one winter 
 if you can, and then — since I am not 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, yott — 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 noio ; 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 that has 
 to be done, why — but I begin speaking, and I should not, 
 I know. 
 
 Bless you, love ! 
 E. B. 
 
 To-morrow I see you, without fail. I am rejoiced as 
 you can imagine, at your brother's improved state. 
 
244 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Oct. 15 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, October 15, 1845.] 
 
 Will this note reach you at the ' fatal hour ' . . or 
 sooner? At any rate it is forced to ask you to take Thurs- 
 day for Wednesday, inasmuch as Mr. Kenyon in his exceed- 
 ing kindness has put off his journey just for me, 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 in- 
 fluenza, it will be better for you not to come for another 
 day, . . I think that, 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 turn- 
 ing to typhus. 
 
 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 at- 
 traction, 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. 
 
 And so until Thursday ! May God bless you — 
 
 and as the heart goes, ever yours. 
 
 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 {in myself) I shall be 
 most glad, if I have a letter to-night. Shall I? 
 
1846] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAREETT 245 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark. October 15, 1845.] 
 
 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 jwe that you write is of me . .1 
 shall never say that I Mr. Kenyon is all kindness, and one 
 gets to take it as not so purely natural a thing, the show- 
 ing 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? 
 
 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. 
 
 My poems went duly to press on Monday night — there 
 is not much correctable in them, — you make, or you spoil, 
 one of these things ; that is, / do. I have adopted all your 
 emendations, and thrown in lines and words, just a morn- 
 ing's business ; but one does not write plays so. Tou 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 proof at the end of the week — will yon 
 help me and over-look it. (' Yes ' — she says . . my thanks 
 I do not say ! — ) 
 
 While writing this, the Times catches my eye (it just 
 came in) and something from the Lancet 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 po- 
 tion : 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 mak- 
 ing Paracelsus the hero of a poem. Sir E. L. Bulwer 
 writes puffs for the water doctors in a style worthy of 
 
246 THE LETTEES OE EOBEKT BEOWNING [Oct. 15 
 
 imitation by the scribe that does the poetical for Moses and 
 Son. Miss Martineau makes a finessing servant girl her 
 physician-general: and Kichard 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 ' ! 
 
 What weather, now at last ! Think for yourself and for 
 me — could you not go out on such days? 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Bless my dearest — my own! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, October 16, 1845.] 
 
 Your letter which should have reached me in the morn- 
 ing 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 iU, . . 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 begin- 
 ning to answer it only now. 
 
 What am I to say but this . . that I know what you are 
 . . and that I know also what you are to me, — 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 need 
 be said, even if they were not likely to prove their own end 
 good, as I believe with you. Tou may be quite sure that 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 247 
 
 I shall be well this winter, if in any way it should be pos- 
 sible, and that I ivill not 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 so /), I should 
 certainly have been beaten down — and how it is different 
 now, . . and how it is only gratitude to you, to say 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 hurt you. 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 wiU 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. 
 
 And here is another . . just arrived. How I thank 
 you. Think of the Times ! 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. ' 
 
 Almost you forced me to smile by thinking it worth 
 while to say that you are 'not selfish. ' Did Sir Percival 
 say so to Sir Gawaine across the Bound Table, in those 
 times of chivalry to which you belong by the soul? Cer- 
 tainly you are not selfish ! May God bless you. 
 
 Ever your 
 E. B. B. 
 
 The fever may last, they say, for a week longer, or even 
 a fortnight — but it decreases. Yet he is hot still, and very 
 weak. 
 
 To to-morrow I 
 
248 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Oct. 17 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, October 17, 1845.] 
 
 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 some- 
 where, the Davuses of the world who are in the majority 
 (' Davi sumus, non CEdipi ') with a solution of this one 
 Sphinx riddle. Is there a reason against it? 
 
 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, 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. 
 
 Tour 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 myself, to seem to risk your happiness and 
 abuse your generosity. For me . . though you threw out 
 words yesterday about the testimony of a ' third person, ' 
 . . it would be monstrous to assume it to be necessary to 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 249 
 
 vindicate my trust of you — / trust you implicitly — 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 — that 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. 
 Tou are not like other men, as I could see from the begin- 
 ning — no. 
 
 Shall I have the proof to-night, I ask myself. 
 
 And if you like to come on Monday rather than Tues- 
 day, 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 meet- 
 ings, 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. 
 
 Ever your own — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, October 18, 1845.] 
 
 I must not go on tearing these poor sheets one after the 
 other, — the proper phrases will not come, — so let them stay, 
 while you care for my best interests in their best, only 
 way, and say for me what I would say if I could — dearest, 
 — say it, as I feel it ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Eabbis make Bells and Pomegranates symbolical of 
 
250 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWlIfING [Oct. 18 
 
 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 Jwls succeeded beyond my most adventur- 
 ous 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 lier. 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 after- 
 noon — and probably I will. 
 
 I weigh all the words in your permission to come on 
 Monday . . do not think / have not seen that contingency 
 from the first! Let it be Tuesday — no sooner! Mean- 
 while you are never away — never from your place here. 
 God bless my dearest. 
 
 Ever yours 
 
 B. B. 
 
 R. B. to KB. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [In the same envelope ■with the preceding letter.] 
 
 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. 
 
 The ' Inscription,' how does that read? 
 
 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 'Boioer,' yet, One day! 
 
 — Which Grod send you, dearest, and your 
 
 E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 251 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, October 23, 1845.] 
 
 Even at the risk of teazing you a little I must say a few 
 words, tliat tliere 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 suflBciently 
 made clear to you long ago how certain questions were or- 
 dered 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 
 vidshing 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 observed, 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 ob- 
 jection to your coming twice a week now and then . . 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 pru- 
 dent ! — 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 per- 
 fectly see that whether new or old, what it involves may 
 well be unpleasant to you — and that (however old) it may 
 be apt to recur to your mind with a new increasing un- 
 pleasantness. 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, not to 
 ansiver this, and next, to weigh and consider thoroughly 
 
252 THE LETTEES OE EOBEKT BEOWNING [Oct. 23 
 
 ' 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 op- 
 posite way . . you! . . 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 
 . . there. I ask you therefore to consider ' that contin- 
 gency ' well— not forgetting the other obvious evils, which 
 the late decision about Pisa has aggravated beyond calcula- 
 tion . . 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 en- 
 treat you not to answer this — 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 aU 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 
 that by your not going . . or you may say ' no ' in a word 
 . . for I require no ' protestations ' indeed — and you may 
 trust to me . . it shall be as you choose. You will con- 
 sider my happiness most by considering your own . . and 
 that is my last word. 
 
 Wednesday morning. — I did not say haK I thought 
 about the poems yesterday — and their various power and 
 beauty will be striking and surprising to your most accus- 
 tomed readers. ' St. Praxed '— ' Pictor Ignotus '— ' The 
 Eide '— ' The Duchess ' !— Of the new poems I like su- 
 premely the first and last . . that ' Lost Leader ' which 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 253 
 
 strikes so broadly and deep . . which nobody can ever 
 forget — and which is worth all the journalizing and pam- 
 phleteering 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 
 fi-agments 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 ' Eng- 
 land 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 ' ap- 
 pears to me more than ever a new-minted golden coin — the 
 rhythm of it answering to your own description, ' Speech 
 half asleep, or songhaK 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? 
 May God blesa you always — send me the next proof in 
 any case. 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, October 23, 1845.] 
 
 But I must answer you, and be forgiven, too, dearest. 
 I was (to begin at the beginning) surely not ' startled ' . , 
 only properly aware of the deep blessing I have been en- 
 joying 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 you 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 
 
254 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Oct. 23 
 
 will 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 to«;e you; I see you ' once a week'' because I can- 
 not see you all day long; I think of you all day long, be- 
 cause 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 impossi- 
 bility of your ever (you know I must talk your own lan- 
 guage,' 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 de- 
 voured 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? Tet, 
 put that away, and what do you meet at every turn, if you 
 are hunting about in the dusk to catch my good, but your- 
 self? 
 
 /know who has got it, caught it, and means to keep it 
 on his heart — the person most concerned — /, dearest, who 
 cannot play the disinterested part of bidding you 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, sure 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 any imaginable rule which shall 
 render it possible for your life to move with it and possess 
 it, all the little it is worth. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 255 
 
 For your friends . . whatever can be ' got over, ' what- 
 ever opposition may be rational, will be easily removed, I 
 suppose. You know when I spoke lately about the ' sel- 
 fishness ' 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 Kght, 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 you ' 
 — 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 
 
 When I am, praying God to bless her ever, 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, October 24, 1845.] 
 
 'And he forgiven' . . 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 
 
256 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Oct. 24 
 
 thinking of yon so, 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 that, you cannot guess. 
 May God bless you — 
 
 Ever I am yours. 
 
 The proof does not come ! 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, October 25, 1845.] 
 
 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 you being not ' selfish ' ! Tou know it is fool- 
 ish to talk such superfluities, and not a compliment, . . 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 me who never , . when I have been 
 deepest asleep and dreaming . . never dreamed of attrib- 
 uting 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 jeal- 
 ous 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 that and been vexed — ungrateful vexation ! Li ex- 
 change for which too frank confession, I will ask for an- 
 other silent promise . . a silent promise — no, but first I 
 will say another thing. 
 
 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 for the present — and if I ran 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 257 
 
 tlie risk of making you uncomfortable about tJiat, I did 
 foolishly, and what I meant to do was different. I wish 
 you also to understand that even if you came here every-day, 
 my brothers and sisters would simply care to know if I 
 liked it, and then be glad if I was glad : — the caution re- 
 ferred to one person alone. In relation to luhom, 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 
 in the individiuil 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 
 always that right over my own affections which is the most 
 strictly personal of all things, and which involves prin- 
 ciples and consequences of infinite importance and scope 
 — even though I never 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 doitm even — the merest 
 thread of a sympathy wiU draw me sometimes — or even the 
 least look of kind eyes over a dyspathy — ' Cela se peut 
 f acilement. ' But for another relation — it was all different 
 — and rightly so — and so very different — ' Cela ne se peut 
 nullement ' — as in Malherbe. 
 
 And now we must agree to ' let all this be, ' and set our- 
 selves 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 
 win come the tragedies— and then, . . what beside? We 
 Vol. I.— 17 
 
258 THE LETTEKS OP EOBEET BROWNING [Oct. 35 
 
 shall have a happy winter after all , . /shall at least j and 
 if Pisa had been better, London might be worse : and for 
 me to grow pretentious and fastidious and critical about 
 various sorts of purple . . I, who have been used to the 
 hrun fond of Mme. de Sevigne, {fonc^ and enfanci . .) — 
 would be too absurd. But why does not the proof come 
 all this time? I have kept this letter to go back with it. 
 
 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 AtJienceum, with additional matter on American litera- 
 ture, in a volume by itseK — 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 responsi- 
 bility 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 with- 
 out leave . . and so without correction. WTiat 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. 
 
 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 
 
 Tours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 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 disin- 
 terested ; but because one class of motives would be valid, 
 and the other void — simply for that reason. 
 
1845] A.ND ELIZABETH BAERETT 259 
 
 Then the femme qui parle (looking back over the par- 
 lance) did not mean to say on the first page of this letter 
 that she was ever for a moment vexed in her pride that she 
 should owe anything to her adversities. It was only be- 
 cause 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. 
 
 Occy is up to-day and doing well. 
 
 H. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, Octobers?, 1845.] 
 
 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, thought 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 that, in which you col- 
 lected and accepted those ' promises '—because they would 
 not be all so unworthy of me- — much less you ! I would 
 receive, in virtue of them, the ascription of whatever wor- 
 thiness is supposed to lie in deep, truest love, and grati- 
 tude — 
 
 Eead my silent answer there too ! 
 
 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. 
 
 It was on my lip, I do think, last visit, or the last but 
 one, to beg you to detach those papers from the Athe- 
 noeum's gdchis. Certainly this opportunity is most favour- 
 able, for every reason: you cannot hesitate, surely. At 
 present those papers are lost — hst for practical purposes. 
 Do pray reply without fail to the proposers ; no, no harm 
 
260 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNINa [Oct. 27 
 
 of these really fine fellows, who could do harm (by printing 
 incorrect copies, and perhaps eking out the column by sup- 
 posititious matter . . ex-gr. they strengthened and length- 
 ened 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 Dick- 
 ens' best work !) — and who do really a good straightfor- 
 ward 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' from,' what depth, do you remem- 
 ber, say, ten or twelve years back? — to — Carlyle, and Ten- 
 nyson, and you ! So children leave off Jack of Cornwall 
 and go on just to Homer. 
 
 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. Yes- 
 terday I took out ' Luria ' and read it through — the skele- 
 ton — I shall hope to finish it soon now. It is for a pure- 
 ly 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 one- 
 ness I most wish to preserve. 
 
 On Tuesday — at last, I am with you. Till when be 
 with me ever, dearest — God bless you ever — 
 
 E. B. 
 
 R B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday 9 a.m. 
 [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] 
 
 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 — 
 
 At 3 this day ! Bless you — B. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 261 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 I write in haste, not to lose time about tlie proof. Tou 
 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 . . sow- 
 ing 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 Bonsard, honoured, in this fresh shower of 
 music on his old grave . . though the chivalry of the inter- 
 pretation, as well as much beside, is so plainly yours, . . 
 could only be yours perhaps. And even you 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 para- 
 graph of your story ! And the versification ! And the lady 's 
 speech — (to return !) so calm, and proud — yet a little bitter ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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? 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
262 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Oct. 30 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Night. 
 [Post-mark, October 30, 1845.] 
 
 Like yonr 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 Human 
 (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 incit- 
 ing, unless in new works which shall justify the unsatisfac- 
 tion, if I may not say shame, at these, these written before 
 your time, my best love? 
 
 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. Tou know whether you re- 
 joiced me or no by that information about the exercise you 
 had taken yesterday. Think what telling one that you 
 grow stronger would mean ! 
 
 ' 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 pru- 
 dence besides, and I do believe that we shall be happy ; 
 that is, that you will be happy : you see I dare confidently 
 expect the end to it aU . . 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. 
 
 So try, try, dearest, every method, take every measure 
 of hastening such a consummation. Why, we shall see 
 Italy together! I coidd, would, ivill shut myself in four 
 walls of a room with you and never leave you and be most 
 of all then ' a lord of infinite space ' — but, to travel with 
 you to Italy, or Greece. Very vain, I know that, all such 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 263 
 
 day dreaming ! And ungrateful, too ; with tlie real suffic- 
 ing happiness here of being, and knowing that you know 
 me to be, and suffer me to tell you I am yours, ever your 
 own. 
 
 God bless you, my dearest — 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, November 1, 1845.] 
 
 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. Tour 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 be- 
 hind 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 wnen 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 Beranger, and is 
 supposed to be the most literary person at court — and 
 wasn't at Chevy Chase one must needs think. 
 
 One must needs write nonsense rather — for I have writ- 
 ten 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 aU the talking to- 
 day. Yes indeed, dreams ! But what is not dreaming is 
 
264 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 1 
 
 this and this — this reading of these words — this proof of 
 this regard — ail 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 know- 
 ing it to be all far on the outside of me . . myself . . not 
 seeming to touch it with the end of my finger . . and receiv- 
 ing 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 let- 
 ters 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 mo- 
 tives 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 me . . me . . in any 
 way : it was not within my re5,ch — 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 grate- 
 ful and flattered . . yes flattered . . when he has chosen 
 rather to stay with me all day than go down stairs. Grate- 
 ful 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 shall not do? . . but when you tell me? 
 
 Only remember that such words make you freer and 
 
1845] AISTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 266 
 
 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. 
 When does the book come out? Not on the first, I be- 
 gin to be glad. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 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. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, November 4, 1845.] 
 
 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 under- 
 stand why I can neither talk to you, nor write to you now, 
 as we are now; — from the beginning, the personal interest 
 absorbed every other, greater or smaller — but as one can- 
 not well, — or should not, — sit quite silently, the words go 
 on, about Home, or what chances — while you are in my 
 thought. 
 
 But when I have you . . so it seems . . in my very 
 heart; when you are entirely with me — oh, the day — then 
 it will all go better, talk and writing too. 
 
 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. With- 
 draw nothing, then, dearest, from your 
 
 E. B. 
 
266 THE LETTEES OP ROBERT BROWNING [Nov. 6 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, November 6, 1845.] 
 
 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. 
 
 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 unde- 
 stroyed, 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. 
 
 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 Chau- 
 cer) will wonder a little — and he has looked at me with 
 scanning spectacles already and talked of its being a mys- 
 tery to him how you made your way here; and /, who 
 though I can bespeak self-command, have no sort of pres- 
 ence 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 — 
 ' that you deserved to he a poet — being one in your heart and 
 life : ' he said that of you to me, and I thought it a noble 
 encomium and deserving its application. 
 
 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 
 
1845] A^D ELIZABETH BAEEETT 267 
 
 women accounted happier. / am happy besides now — 
 happy enough to die now. 
 
 May God bless you, dear — dearest — 
 
 Ever I am yours — 
 
 The book does not come — so I shall not wait. Mr. 
 Kenyon came instead, and comes again on Friday he says, 
 and Saturday seems to be clear still. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Just arrived! — (mind, the silent writing 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 0. must get their copy, 
 and word of regard, all by next post ! — 
 
 Could you think that that imtoward letter lived one mo- 
 ment after it returned to me? I burned it and cried ' serve 
 it right ' ! Poor letter, — yet I should have been vexed and 
 offended then to be told I covM love you better than I did 
 already. ' Live and learn ! ' Live and love you dear- 
 est, as loves you 
 
 E. B. 
 
 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 are 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 Home's 
 address — I would send then) 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, November 7, 1845. ] 
 
 I see and know, read and mark; and only hope there 
 is no harm done by my meddling ; and lose the sense of 
 
268 THE LETTEES OF EOBEKT BEOWNING [Nov. 7 
 
 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 impietum ! ' or rather, O un- 
 grateful right hand which does not thank you first ! I do 
 thank you. I have been reading everything with new de- 
 light; and at intervals remembering in inglorious compla- 
 cency (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 British Quarterly has been 
 abusing me so at large, that I can only take it to be the 
 achievement of a very particular friend indeed, — of some- 
 one 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 himg 
 ' to the crows ' so publicly . . though within the bounds 
 of legitimate criticisms, mind. But oh — the creatures of 
 your sex are not always magnanimous — that is true. And 
 to put you between me and all . . the thought of you . . 
 in a great eclipse of the world . . that is happy . . only, 
 too happy for such as I am ; as my own heart warns me 
 hour by hour. 
 
 ' Serve me 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 me 
 right ' quite clearly. And yet — but no more ' and yets ' 
 about it. ' And yets ' fray the silk. 
 
 I see how the ' turret ' stands in the new reading, tri- 
 umphing 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 269 
 
 tlie ' Lost Mistress, ' does still seem questionable to me, 
 thougli 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 am quite sure that people who shall 
 complain of darkness are blind . . I mean, that the con- 
 struction is clear and unembarrassed everywhere. Subtle- 
 ties 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 
 that cause be an offence, why we may begin with ' our be- 
 loved brother Paul, ' you know, and go down through all 
 the geniuses of the world, and bid them put away their in- 
 spirations. Tou must descend to the level of critic A or 
 B, that he may look into your face . . Ah well ! — ' Let 
 them rave.' Tou wiU live when all those are under the 
 willows. Li 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 you 
 than yours. Yes — you than yours . . (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 you are 
 better than yours ; even when so much yours as your own 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 May I see the first act first? Let me ! — And you walk? 
 
 Mr. Home's address is Hill Side, Fitzroy Park, High- 
 gate. 
 
 There is no reason against Saturday so far. Mr. Ken- 
 yon comes to-morrow, Friday, and therefore — ! — and if 
 Saturday shoidd become impracticable, I will write again. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, November 10, 1845.] 
 
 When I come back from seeing you, and think over it 
 all, there never is a least word of yours I could not occupy 
 
270 THE LETTEES OF KOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 10 
 
 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 at- 
 tempt. So you must go on, patiently, knowing me more 
 and more, and your entire power on me, and I wiU console 
 myself, to the full extent, with your knowledge — penetra- 
 tion, intuition — somehmu 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 mak- 
 ing clear one of the less important points that arise in our 
 intercourse . . if I fancy I can do it with the least suc- 
 cess. 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 me. Dearest, I believed in your glori- 
 ous genius and knew it for a true star from the moment I 
 saw it ; long before I had the blessing of knowing it was 
 MY star, with my fortune and futurity in it. And, when I 
 draw back from myself, and look better and more clearly, 
 then I do 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 . . ivill 
 it do — tell me — to trust all that as a light effort, an easy 
 matter? 
 
 Yet, if you can lift me with one hand, while the other 
 suffices to crown you — there is queenliness in that, too ! 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 271 
 
 "Well, I have spoken. And I told you, your turn comes 
 now. How have you determined respecting the American 
 Edition? Tou tell me nothing of yourself! It is all me 
 you help, me you do good to . . and I take it all ! Now 
 see, if this goes on 1 I have not had every love-luxury, I 
 now find out . . where is the proper, rationally to-be-ex- 
 pected — 'lovers^ quarrel?' Here, as you will find! 'Irse 
 amantium ' . . I am no more * at a loss with my Naso, ' 
 than Peter Konsard. Ah, but then they are to be reinte- 
 gratio am(yris — 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 Eomance, 
 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 the time — informing me, moreover, if Thurs- 
 day or Friday is to be my day — . 
 
 May God bless you, my own love. 
 
 I will certainly bring you an Act of the Play . . for 
 this serpent's reason, in addition to the others . . that — 
 No, I will tell you that — I can tell you now more than even 
 
 lately ! 
 
 Ever your own 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, November 11, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 
 What man is strong until he stands alone ? 
 
 What man . . what woman? For have I not felt twenty 
 times the desolate advantage of being insulated here and 
 
272 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Nov. 11 
 
 of not minding anybody when I made my poems? — of liv- 
 ing a little like a disembodied spirit, and caring less for sup- 
 posititious criticism than for the black fly buzzing in the 
 pane? — That made me what dear Mr. Kenyon calls ' inso- 
 lent, ' — untimid, and unconventional in my degree ; and not 
 so much by strength, you see, as by separation. You touch 
 your greater ends by mere strength; breaking with your 
 own hands the hampering threads which, in your position 
 would have hampered me. 
 
 StiU . . when aU is changed for me now, and different, 
 it is not possible, . . for all the changing, nor for aU your 
 line and my speculation, . . that I should not be better 
 and stronger for being within your influences and sympa- 
 thies, 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 In- 
 dolence and watching the new sunrise — as why not? — Do 
 I mean to be idle always? — no! — and am I not an indus- 
 trious 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 not hope, if you 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 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 that as a light effort, an 
 easy matter? ' 
 
 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 ' Pomf ret. ' 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 273 
 
 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 sus- 
 tainment and vigour, and I am in process of being inter- 
 ested in it. Not that he is a maJcer, 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? 
 
 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 ' Eide to Ghent, ' and praising the ' Duch- 
 ess, ' and praising you altogether as I liked to hear him. 
 The Ghent-ride was ' very fine ' — and the 
 
 Into tlie midnight they galloped abreast 
 
 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, ' that was taken to be 
 ' wonderful, ' . . ' showing extraordinary power, . . as in- 
 deed 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 them? So I shall teU you, instead 
 of any more, that I went down to the drawing-room yes- 
 terday (because it was warm enough) by an act of super- 
 erogatory virtue for which you may praise me in turn. 
 What weather it is ! and how the year seems to have for- 
 gotten itself into April. 
 
 But after all, how have I answered your letter? and 
 Vol. I.— 18 
 
274 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Nov. 11 
 
 how are sucli letters to be answered? Do we answer tlie 
 sun wlien lie shines? May God bless you . . it is my 
 answer — with one word besides . . that I am wholly and 
 ever your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 On Thursday as far as I know yet — and you shall hear 
 if there should be an obstacle. W^ you walk? 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. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Two letters in one — Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, November 15, 1845. ] 
 
 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 ex- 
 travagance (oh such pure extravagance about ' glorious 
 geniuses ' — ) I can't help telling you they were heard last, 
 and deserved it. 
 
 Shall I tell you besides? — The first moment in which I 
 seemed to admit to myself in a flash of lightning the possi- 
 hility of your affection for me being more than dream-work 
 . . the first moment was that 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 irra- 
 tional, was just the only one fitted to the uses of my under- 
 standing 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, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 275 
 
 tliat 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 ' — as long as it includes it. 
 
 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 at- 
 tachments 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 
 stiU ; 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 goitre would 
 be more admirable than Abelard's. Whereupon every- 
 body laughed, and someone thought it affected of me and 
 no true opinion, and others said plainly that it was im- 
 moral, 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. 
 
 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 why it is all behind . . and in its place — 
 and why I have a tendency moreover to sift and measure 
 any praise of yours and to separate it from the superflui- 
 ties, far more than with any other person's praise in the 
 world. 
 
 Friday evening. — Shall I send this letter or not ? I 
 
276 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Nov. 15 
 
 have been 'tra '1 si e 1 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 ! 
 
 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 iluit ! — And then, when he 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 mean- 
 time I am snatched up into ' Luria ' and feel myself driven 
 on to the ends of the poet, just as a reader should. 
 
 But you are not driven on to any ends? so as to be 
 tired, I mean? You will not suffer yourself to be over- 
 worked because you are ' interested ' in this work. I am 
 so certain that the sensations in your head demand repose; 
 and it must be so injurious to you to be perpetually call- 
 ing, calling these new creations, one after another, that you 
 must consent to be called to, 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 construc- 
 tion goes, you never put together so much unquestionable, 
 smooth glory before, . . not a single entanglement for the 
 xmderstanding . . unless ' the snowdrops ' make an excep- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 277 
 
 tion — wliile for tlie 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 ' Duch- 
 ess ' does more and more strike me as a new thing ; some- 
 thing like (if like anything) what the Greeks called pedes- 
 trian-metre, . . between metre and prose . . the difficult 
 rhymes combining too quite curiously with the easy loose- 
 ness of the general measure. Then ' The Eide ' — 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 soft- 
 ness 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, ' Fortu ' 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 'select' every- 
 thing 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. 
 
 When you write will you say exactly how you are? and 
 will you write? And I want to explain to you that al- 
 though 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 un- 
 grateful 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 
 
278 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 15 
 
 right composure and point of balance to the nervous sys- 
 tem. 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 have not been 
 low enough and with cause enough ; but even then, . . why 
 if you were to ask the nearest witnesses, . . say, even my 
 own sisters, . . everybody would tell you, I think, that 
 the ' cheerfulness ' even then, 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 need not try. May God bless you long 
 after you have done blessing me ! 
 
 Tour own 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 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 
 cannot. One is a truth of me — and the other a truth of 
 you — and we two are different, you know. 
 
 Tou are not over-working in * Luria ' ? That you 
 should not, is a truth, too. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 279 
 
 I observed that Mr. Kenyon put in ' Junior ' to your 
 address. Ought that to be done? or does my fashion of 
 directing find you without hesitation? 
 
 Mr. Kenyon asked me for Mr. Chorley's book, or you 
 should have it. Shall I send it to you presently? 
 
 E. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, November 17, 1845. ] 
 
 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 deep 
 joy,) — the true love with which I take this much of you 
 into my heart, . . that 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 away, 
 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, <fec. 
 which jLO foolish fancy dares associate with you . . if you 
 COULD tell me when I next sit by you — ' I will undeceive 
 you, — I am not tlie Miss B. — she is upstairs and you shall 
 see her — I only wrote those letters, and am what you see, 
 that is all now left you ' (aU the misapprehension having 
 arisen from me, in some inexplicable way) . . I should not 
 begin by saying anything, dear, dearest — but after that, I 
 should assure you— soon make you believe that I did not 
 much wonder at the event, for I have been all my life ask- 
 ing 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 — benevolent feeling to 
 
280 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Nov. 17 
 
 Mr. Pitt wlien he wrote that stanza in whicli ' Fire ' means 
 to ' cling to him everlastingly ' — where is the long line of 
 admiration now that the end snaps? And now — here I re- 
 fuse to fancy — you know whether, if you never write an- 
 other line, speak another intelligible word, recognize me by 
 a look again — whether I shall love you less or more . . 
 mobb; 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 might go from you to your loss, and so 
 to mine, to say the least . . because I want Aii 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 con- 
 stantly heard of you through Mr. K. and was near seeing 
 you once, and might have easily availed myself of his inter- 
 vention 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 tiU they cut their initials on the cheek of the 
 Medicean Venus to prove they worship her. My admira- 
 tion, 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 ivrite 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 reas- 
 sure me on that point . . then I did write, on account of 
 my purely personal obligation, though of course taking that 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 281 
 
 occasion to allude to the general and customary delight in 
 your works : I did write, on the whole, unwillingly . . 
 with consciousness of having to speak on a subject which 
 Tfelt thoroughly concerning, and could not be satisfied with 
 an imperfect expression of. As for expecting then 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 about you, 
 with some reference to you — so I will live, so may I die ! 
 And you have blessed me beyond the bond, in more than 
 in giving me yourself to love ; inasmuch as you believed 
 me from the first . . what you call ' dream-work ' was real 
 of its kind, did you not think? and now you believe me, 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 me direct 
 tvrong and hide for a moment from me what a word can ex- 
 plain as now. Tou 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 ! 
 
 And since I wrote what is above, I have been reading 
 among other poems that soimet — ' 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 inef- 
 fectual 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, tlie less . . for being 
 
282 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 17 
 
 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, 
 
 I am your 
 
 E. B. 
 
 I must answer your questions : I am better — and will cer- 
 tainly have your injunction before my eyes and work quite 
 moderately. Tour letters come straight to me — my father's 
 go to Town, except on extraordinary occasions, so that aU 
 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 yearned 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 
 ever 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 me. Do not, now, deprive me of 
 a right — a right . . to find you as you are; get no habit 
 of being cheerful with me — I have universal sympathy and 
 can show you a side of me, a true face, turn as you may. 
 If you are cheerful . . so wiU I be . . if sad, my cheer- 
 fulness will be all the while behind, and propping up, any 
 sadness that meets yours, if that should be necessary. As 
 for my question about the opium . . you do not misunder- 
 stand tJiat neither : I trust in the eventual consummation of 
 my — shall I not say, our — hopes ; and all that bears upon 
 your health immediately or prospectively, affects me — how 
 it affects me ! WiU you vsrite again? Wednesday, remem- 
 ber ! Mr. K. wants me to go to him one of the three next 
 days after. I wiU bring you some letters . . one from 
 Landor. Why should I trouble you about ' Pomfret.' 
 
 And Luria . . does it so interest you? Better is to 
 come of it. How you lift me up ! — 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 283 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, November 18, 1845.] 
 
 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 com- 
 pletely 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 ac- 
 knowledge it to be yours, . . that high reason of no reason 
 — I acknowledged it to be yours (didn't I?) in acknowledg- 
 ing that it made an impression on me. And then, refer- 
 ring 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 tliat unreasonable way, than for the 
 best reason in the world. But all that was history and 
 philosophy simply — was it not? — and not dovibt of you. 
 
 The truth is . . since we really are talking truths in 
 this world . . that I never have doubted you — ah, you 
 Tcnow ! — 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 — thit, you Imaw. 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 feel- 
 ings . . not even to the outside fringes of your man's 
 
284 THE LETTEES OE KOBERT BROWNING [Nov. 18 
 
 vanity . . should you have any vanity like a man ; which 
 I do 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 iest 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 / that I should think other- 
 wise? 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 Miracle. Do not 
 blame me now, . . my angel ! 
 
 Nor say, that I ' do not lean ' on you with all the 
 weight of my ' past ' . . because I do ! Tou cannot guess 
 what you are to me — you cannot — it is not possible: — and 
 though I have said thit 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 earli- 
 est brightest dreaming-time had been lying through these 
 dark years to steep in the sunshine, returning to me in a 
 double light. Can it be, I say to myself, that you feel for 
 me so? can it be meant for me? this from you? 
 
 If it is your ' right ' that I should be gloomy at will 
 with you, you exercise it, I do think — for although I can- 
 not 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 my- 
 self 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 
 
1845] ANB ELIZABETH BAEEETT 285 
 
 enough, needing purification . . weakness enough, needing 
 strengthening . . nothing 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, through you . . I cannot repress the . . ' How have 
 I deserved this of Him? ' — I know I have not — I know I 
 do not. 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Were you wrong in answering? ' Surely not . . un- 
 less it is wrong to show all this goodness . . and too much, 
 it may be for me. 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 — 
 that, 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 no doubt! — ) but I was simply unwilling 
 to seem to be asking for golden words . . going down the 
 aisles with that large silken purse, as queteuse. Try to 
 understand. 
 
 On Wednesday then ! — George is invited to meet you 
 on Thursday at Mr. Kenyon's. 
 
 The Examiner 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 — 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
286 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Nov. 31 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 
 Here is tlie copy of Landor's verses. 
 
 You know thoroughly, do you not, why I brought all 
 those good-natured letters, desperate praise and all? Not, 
 not 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 mo- 
 tive of the writers, — and so was determined to give them 
 the ' last honours, ' if not the first, and not make them miss 
 you because, through my fault, they had missed me ? Does 
 this sound too fantastical? Because it is strictly true : the 
 most laudatory of all, I skimmed once over with my flesh 
 creeping — it seemed such a death-struggle, that of good 
 
 nature over well, it is fresh ingratitude of me, so here 
 
 it shall end. 
 
 I am not ungrateful to you — but you must wait to know 
 that : — I can speak less than nothing with my living lips. 
 
 I mean to ask your brother how you are to-night . . 
 so quietly ! 
 
 God bless you, my dearest, and reward you. 
 
 Your E. B. 
 
 Mrs. Shelley— with the ' Eicordi.' 
 
 Of course, Landor's praise is altogether a different gift; 
 a gold vase from King Hiram ; beside he has plenty of con- 
 scious rejoicing in his own riches, and is not left painfuUy 
 poor by what he sends away. That 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? 
 
 Now — you are not to turn on me because the first is my 
 proper feeling to you, . . for poetry is not the thing given 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 287 
 
 or taken between us — it is heart and life and myself, not 
 mine, I give — give? That you glorify and change and, in 
 returning then, give me I 
 
 U. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, November 21, 1845. ] 
 
 Thank you ! and will you, if your sister made the copy 
 of Landor's verses for me as well as for you, thank her 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 me, 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 is he not cold? — and is it not easy to see why 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, ' en revanche ? but I 
 liked his letter and his candour in the last page of it. Will 
 Mr. Warburton review you? does he mean that? Now do 
 let me see any other letters you receive. May 1? Of 
 course Landor's 'dwells apart' from all: and besides the 
 reason you give for being gratified by it, it is weU 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 . . ' You may stand quite alone if you will — and 
 I think you will. ' That is a noble testimony to a truth. 
 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 descrip- 
 tion. And, in the verses, he lays his finger just on your 
 
288 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Nov. 21 
 
 characteristics — just on tliose which, when you were only 
 a poet to me, (only a poet: does it sound irreverent? al- 
 most, 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 Exami- 
 ner ? and again in the Athenaeum ? if in the Uxaminer, cer- 
 tainly again in the Athenaeum — it would be a matter of 
 course. Oh those verses : how they have pleased me ! It 
 was an act worthy of him — and of you. 
 
 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 visi- 
 tors generally), and to ask with a smile, if I had ' a mes- 
 sage for my friend ' . . that 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 com- 
 plain 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 sacri- 
 fice of impulsiveness and liberty of spirit, which / 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 ! 
 
 Theodosia Gari'ow, I have seen face to face once or 
 twice. She is very clever — very accomplished — with tal- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 289 
 
 ents 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 / 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, that being 
 the case, it does not spoil the discriminating appreciation 
 on the other page of this letter. I might have the mod- 
 esty 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 that! — 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. 
 
 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. Tou 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? . . require, I mean. 
 If so — why what follows and ought to follow? You must 
 not be ill indeed — that 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 sen- 
 sations in the head are frightful and ought to be stopped 
 by whatever means ; even by the worst, as they would seem 
 to me. 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 ap- 
 peared 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 
 you too who profess to say ' less than nothing, ' and that 
 Vol. I.— 19 
 
290 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 21 
 
 was that ' the times seemed longer to you ' — do you remem- 
 ber 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, . . ' that the times 
 seemed shorter,' . . why it would have seemed to me 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 me from being the cause to you of any 
 harm or grief ! . . I choose it for my blessing instead of 
 another. What should I be if I could fail willingly to you 
 in the least thing? But I never iviU, 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 pre- 
 cious deposit of ' heart and life ' , . which may yet be re- 
 called. 
 
 And, so, may God bless you and your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Eemember to say how you are. 
 
 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. ' / 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 me ' 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 291 
 
 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. 
 
 But I will not tell you the story after all. 
 
 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. 
 Let me hear ! and I will be as brisk as a monument next 
 time for variety. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Night. 
 [Postmark, November 33, 1845.] 
 
 How good and kind to send me these books ! (The let- 
 ter I say nothing of, according to convention : if I wrote 
 down ' best and kindest ' . . oh, what poorest words !) I 
 shall tell you aU about ' Pomfret, ' be sure. Chorley talked 
 of it, as we walked homewards together last night, — mod- 
 estly and well, and spoke of having given away two copies 
 only . . to his mother one, and the other to — Miss Bar- 
 rett, 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 ex- 
 presses surprise that I shall feel these blanks between the 
 days when I see you longer and longer ! So am 1 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 what the hour 
 and more means that you endow one with, I do — not to say 
 could — I do form resolutions, and say to myself — ' If next 
 
292 THE LETTEES OF EOBEKT BEOWNING [Nov. 23 
 
 time I am bidden stay away a fortnight, I will not reply 
 by a word beyond the grateful assent. ' I do, 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 Eng- 
 land, on such a day I was on Vesuvius, in Pompeii, at 
 Shelley's grave; all that should be kept in memory is, with 
 me, 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 by 
 you — 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 desir- 
 ing 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 ! 
 
 There, I had better leave off; the words ! 
 
 I was very glad to find myself with your brother yes- 
 terday ; 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 injunc- 
 tion to be secret. So I got a copy for dear Mr. Kenyon, 
 and, lo ! what comes ! I send the note to make j'ou smile ! 
 I shall reply that I felt in duty bound to apprise you ; as 
 I did. Toil will observe that I go to that too facile gate of 
 his on Tuesday, my day . . from your house directly. 
 The worst is that I have got entangled with invitations 
 already, and must go out again, hating it, to more than 
 one place. 
 
 I am very well — quite well ; yes, dearest ! The pain is 
 
1845] AED ELIZABETH BAEEETT 293 
 
 quite gone ; and the inconvenience, Lard 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 second-thoughted finger-tip rapidly put forth upon one of 
 my gold pieces ! 
 
 I rather think if Warburton reviews me it will be in the 
 Quarterly, 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 CipoUa.' See what is here, since 
 you will not let me have only you to look at — this is Lan- 
 der's first opinion — expressed to Forster — see the date! 
 and last of all, see me and know me, beloved ! May God 
 bless you ! 
 
 U. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, November 33, 1845.] 
 
 Mr. Kenyon came yesterday — and do you know when 
 he took out those verses and spoke his preface and I un- 
 derstood 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 — . 
 
 But no — My ' vade retro ' prevailed, and I spoke the 
 truth and shamed the devil and surprised Mr. Kenyon be- 
 sides, 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 
 
294 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 22 
 
 doing . . as verses — though there is beauty and music and 
 all that ought to be. Do you see clearly now that the lat- 
 ter 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 Chronicle (I never care to see it till the even- 
 ing) that the verses are there — so that my wishes have 
 fulfilled themselves there at least — strangely, for wishos of 
 mine . . which generally ' go by contraries ' as the sooth- 
 sayers 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 then . . written then, I mean . . or 
 written now ? 
 
 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 diflSculty. Still, I was not sure, before your letter 
 came, how it might be. 
 
 That you really are better is the best news of aU — thank 
 you for telling me. It will be wise not to go out too 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. 
 
 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 beiiuty of those verses . . for that reason he could 
 not help naming th^m to Mr. Landor. All of which was 
 repeated to me yesterday. 
 
 Also I heard of you from George, who admired you — 
 admired you . . as if you were a chancellor in posse, a 
 great lawyer in esse — and then he thought you . . what 
 he never could think a lawyer . . . 'unassuming.' And?/oit 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 295 
 
 . . you are so kind ! Oiily tliat makes me think bitterly 
 what I have thought before, but cannot write to-day. 
 
 It was goodnatured of Mr. Chorley to send me a copy 
 of his book, and he sending so few — very ! George who 
 admires you, 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 be- 
 lieve, and sliould, 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. 
 
 ' An obvious matter, ' you think ! as obvious, as your 
 ' green hill ' . . which I cannot see. For the rest . . my 
 thought upon your ' great /ac^ ' of the ' two days, ' is quite 
 different from your's . . 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 there, 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 (ecce!) of monu- 
 mental brevity — and hicjacet at last 
 
 Tour E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 [Post-mark, November 24, 1845. ] 
 
 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 
 weU — but I must not quite lose the word I counted on. 
 
 Soj that way you will take my two days and turn them 
 against me? Oh, you! Did I say the 'root' had been 
 striking then, or rather, that the seeds, whence the roots 
 take leisure and grow, they had been planted then — and 
 might not a good heart and hand drop acorns enough to 
 
296 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNING [Nov. 34 
 
 grow up into a complete Dodona-grove, — wHeii 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 may be, when 
 here it is, to my everlasting happiness. 
 
 — 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 will- 
 ing 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 utter- 
 ly 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 . . 
 
 Now, I'U tell you what it does 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 say, 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 at the worst 1 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 297 
 
 things : may he bless you, beloved ! So I can but pray, 
 kissing your hand. 
 
 KB. 
 
 Now pardon me, dearest, for what is written • . what 
 I cannot cancel, for the love's sake that it grew from. 
 
 The Chronicle 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 other people 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 differ- 
 ent 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 wiU alter his view, I know, on further ac- 
 quaintance . . and, — woe's me — will find that ' assump- 
 tion's ' pertest self would be troubled to exercise its qual- 
 ity 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. 
 
 Good night, now. Am I not yours — are you not mine? 
 And can that make you happy too? 
 
 Bless you once more and for ever. 
 
 That scrap of Landor's being for no other eye than 
 mine — I made the foolish comment, that there was no blot- 
 ting 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 He- 
 brew characters — the noble languages ! 
 
298 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [Nov. 24 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, November 24, 1845.] 
 
 But what unlawful things have I said about ' kindness ' ? 
 I did not mean any harm — no, indeed ! And as to think- 
 ing . . 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 . . all the contrary! From the beginning, 
 now did I not believe you too much? Did I not believe 
 you even in your contradiction of yourself . . in your yes 
 and no 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. K I have been ' wrong, ' it was not 
 so . . nor indeed then . . it is not so, though it is now, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Therefore . . but wait ! I never gave away what you 
 ask me to give you, 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 accusa- 
 tion! — And, prude or not, I could not— I never could — 
 something 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 . . yes. 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 right 
 'and am no longer so,' . . I suppose you must have it, 
 ' Oh, You, ' . . who have your way in everything thing ! 
 Which does not mean . . Oh, vous, qui avez toujours rai- 
 son — far from it. 
 
1845] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAKEETT 299 
 
 Also . . which does not mean that I shall give you 
 what you ask for, to-morrow, — because I shaU not — and 
 one of my conditions is (with others to follow) that not a 
 word he said to-morrow, you understand. Some day I will 
 send it perhaps . . as you knew I should . . ah, as you 
 knew I should . . notwithstanding that ' getting up ' . . 
 that ' imitation ' . . of humility : as you knew too well I 
 should ! 
 
 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 hiow. 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, you,' 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. 
 
 Your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 But how, ' a foolish comment ' ? Good and true rather ! 
 And I admired the writing ' . . worthy of the reeds of 
 Jordan ! 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, November 37, 1845. ] 
 
 How are you? and Miss Bayley's visit yesterday, and 
 Mr. K. 's to-day — (He told me he should see you this morn- 
 ' [Mr. Browning's letter is written in an unusually bold hand.] 
 
300 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Nov. 27 
 
 ing — and 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. 
 
 How kind Mr. Kenyon was last night and the day be- 
 fore ! He neither wonders nor is much vexed, I dare be- 
 lieve — 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 
 WOTOLD most frankly own to any fault, any imperfection 
 in the beginning of my love of you ; in the pride and se- 
 curity of this present stage it has reached — I would gladly 
 learn, by the full Ifghts now, what an insufficient glimmer 
 it grew from, . . but there never has been cJwtnge, only de- 
 velopment and increased knowledge and strengthened feel- 
 ing — 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 ! 
 
 And you will give me that ? What shall save me from 
 wreck : but truly? How must I feel to you ! 
 
 Tours E. B. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, November 27, 1845.] 
 
 Now you must not blame me — you must not. To make 
 a promise ia 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 Bereni- 
 ces, ' . . 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 
 never can nor will give you this thing ; — only that I will, if 
 you please, exchange it for another thing — you understand. 
 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 al- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 301 
 
 ways how our ' ars poetica, ' after Horace, recommends 
 ' dare et petere vicissim ' — wliich is making a clatter of 
 pedantry to take advantage of the noise . . because per- 
 haps I ought to be ashamed to say this to you, and perhaps 
 I am I . . yet say it none the less. 
 
 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! 
 
 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 that 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 
 is so. Only I would make the smoothest and sweetest 
 of roads for . . and you understand, and do not imagine 
 beyond. 
 
 Tuesday evening. — 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 rea- 
 sons. So I am silent on conditions . . those being . . first 
 . . that you never do such things again . . no, you must 
 not and shall not . . I will not let it be : and secondly, that 
 you try to hear the unspoken words, and understand how 
 your gift will remain with me while /remain . . they need 
 not be said — just as it need not have been so beautiful, for 
 
302 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Nov. 27 
 
 that. Tlie 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 aU my broth- 
 ers ; — 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 . . forme — have I said a word? — 
 have I not been obedient? And by rights and in justice, 
 there should have been a reproach . . if there could ! Be- 
 cause, 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 teased. 
 
 Wednesday. — Only . . I persist in the view of the o<Aer 
 question. This will iiot do for the ' sign, ' . . this, which, 
 so far from being qualified for disproving a dream, is the 
 beautiful image of a dream in itself . . so beautiful : and 
 with the very shut eyelids, and the "little folding of the 
 hands to sleep." You see at a glance it wiU not do. And 
 so — 
 
 Just as one might be interrupted while telling a fairy- 
 tale, . . in the midst of the " and so's" . . just so, 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 
 io feel . . to have great sensibility — and 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 her- 
 self. It was quite a grave, earnest proposal of hers — which 
 was one of the reasons why I could not even wish not to 
 see her to-day. Because you see, it was a tremendous de- 
 gree of experimental generosity, to think of going to Italy 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 303 
 
 by sea with an invalid stranger, "seule h seule." And she 
 was wholly in earnest, wholly. Is there not good in the 
 world after all? 
 
 Tell me how you are, for I am not at ease about you — • 
 Tou 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 ! 
 
 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 teU 
 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 do not complain of it 
 for one. 
 
 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 earlier, by getting up and going away ! 
 
 Wholly and ever your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 R. B. to K B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, November 28, 1845.]' 
 
 Take it, dearest; what I am forced to think you mean 
 — and take no more with it — for I gave all to give long ago 
 — I am all yours — and now, mine; give me mine to be 
 happy with ! 
 
 Tou 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, 
 ' [Envelope endorsed by E. B. B. 'hair. '] 
 
304 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNESTG [Nov. 28 
 
 thougli) — for her intention . . Well, may it all be for best 
 — here or at Pisa, you are my blessing and life. 
 
 . . How all considerate you are, you 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 ! ' — What does that 
 mean, dearest? 
 
 And I might have stayed longer and you let me go. 
 What does that 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 — only 
 . . ah, that 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'? 
 
 I would not be ashamed of my soul if it might be shown 
 you, — it is wholly grateful, conscious of you. 
 
 But another time, do not let me wrong myself so ! Say, 
 ' one minute more. ' 
 
 On Monday? — ^I am much 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? 
 
 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 weir. — and sometimes, I 'look better' . . hoiodoyou 
 know ? When I first saw you — / saw your eyes — since 
 then, you, it should appear, see mine — ^but I only Tmow 
 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? 
 
 — ^No, nothing can he wrong now — you will never call 
 me ' kind ' again, in that sense, you promise ! Nor think 
 ' bitterly ' of my kindness, that word I 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 305 
 
 Shall I see you on Monday? 
 
 God bless you my dearest — I see lier now — and Jiere and 
 now the eyes open, wide enough, and I will kiss them — how 
 gratefully 1 
 
 Your own 
 
 H. !B. 
 
 U. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, December 1, 1845. ] 
 
 It comes at eight o'clock — the post says eight . . I 
 say nearer half past eight . . it comes — 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? / do ! And 
 I need not in conscience — because this one here did not 
 come to me by treason — ' ego et rex mens, ' on the con- 
 trary, do fairly give and take. 
 
 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 onlj^ 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 other world, and take what is nearest . . by chance, 
 not choice . . or it might have been better — a little better 
 — perhaps. The best of it is that it's the colour of your 
 blue flowers. Now you will not say a word — I trust to you. 
 
 It is enough that you should have said these others, 
 I think. Now is 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 you to complain ! As if Haroun Alraschid 
 after cutting off a head, should complain of the want of an 
 Vol. I.— 30 
 
306 THE LETTEKS OF EOBEET BROWNENG [Dec. l 
 
 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 seen you . . and / have 1) 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 
 you as they are used to do with other people . . so now I 
 teU 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. 
 
 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. Ken- 
 yon told me that you had spoken exaggerations — such 
 exaggerations! — Now should there not be some scolding 
 . . some? 
 
 But how did you expect Mr. Kenyon to ' wonder ' sAyou, 
 or be ' vexed ' with you ? That would have been strange 
 surely. You are and always have been a chief favourite in 
 that quarter . . appreciated, praised, loved, I think. 
 
 While I write, a letter from America is put into my 
 hands, and having read it through with shame and confu- 
 sion of face . . not able to help a smile though notwith- 
 standing, . . 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 Phila- 
 delphia 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 tJiat letter to be a circular . . for 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 307 
 
 the address of various ' Europosians.' In any case . . just 
 see liow I liave behaved ! and if it has not been worse than 
 . . not opening one's eyes ! — Judge. Eeally 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 that to prevent your scolding, you know. 
 And think of Mr. Poe, with that great Eoman justice of 
 his (if not rather American !), dedicating a book to one and 
 abusing one in the preface of the same. He wrote a re- 
 view of me in just that spirit — the two extremes of lauda- 
 tion 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 in- 
 deed. 
 
 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 let- 
 ter now . . and what is in the paper now . . and the rest, 
 you shall have after Monday. And you will not say a word 
 . . not then . . not at aU ! — I trust you. And may God 
 bless you. 
 
 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 do . . why in that case 
 you will destroy, burn, . . do all but send back , . enough 
 is said for you to understand. 
 
 May God bless you. You are best to me — best . . as 
 I see . . in the world — and so, dearest aright to 
 
 Your 
 E. B. B. 
 
 Finished on Saturday evening. Oh — this thread of 
 
308 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [[Dec. 1 
 
 silk — And to post ! ! After all you must wait till Tuesday. 
 I liave no silk within reach and shall miss the post. Do 
 forgive me. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday Evening. 
 
 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. 
 
 At last I remember to tell you that the first letter you 
 had from me this week, was forgotten, (not by me) forgot- 
 ten, and detained, so, from the post — a piece of careless- 
 ness which Wilson came to confess to me too frankly for 
 me to grumble as I should have done otherwise. 
 
 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. 
 
 Till Monday then ! I send the ' Eicordi ' to take care of 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 309 
 
 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 slxno (to the ear and mind) that Italian rhetoric 
 is ! a language for dreamers and declaimers. Yet Dante 
 made it for action, and MachiaveUi's prose can walk and 
 strike as well as float and faint. 
 
 The ring is smaller than I feared at first, and may per- 
 haps — 
 
 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 ! 
 If I could be too much 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, December 2, 1845.] 
 
 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 beau- 
 tiful ring, your beloved hair — comforting me, blessing me. 
 
 Let me write to-morrow — when I think on all you have 
 been and are to me, on the wonder of it and the delicious- 
 ness, it makes the paper words that come seem vainer than 
 ever — To-morrow I will write. 
 
 May God bless you, my own, my precious — 
 
 I am all your own 
 
 KB. 
 
 I have thought again, and believe it will be best to 
 select the finger you intended . . as the alteration wiU be 
 simpler, I find; and one is less liable to observation and 
 comment. 
 
 Was not that Mr. Kenyon last evening? And did he 
 ask, or hear, or say anything? 
 
310 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BKOWNESra [Dec. 3 
 
 a. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, December 3, 1845.] 
 
 See, dearest, what the post brings me this minute! 
 Now, is it not a good omen, a pleasant inconscious proph- 
 ecy of what is to be? Be it well done, or badly — there are 
 you, leading me up and onward, in his review as every- 
 where, at every future time ! And our names wiU go to- 
 gether — be read together. In itself this is nothing to you, 
 dear poet — but the unexpectedness, unintended signifi- 
 cance of it has pleased me very much — does it not please 
 you? — I thought I was to figure in that cold Quarterly 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 ! 
 
 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 all well, all best . . now, for one instance, even 
 that phrase of the possibility ' and what is to follow,' — even 
 that 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 not 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 you, so safe and confident in you ! If any of it 
 had been my work, my own . . distrust and foreboding 
 had pursued me from the beginning ; but all is yours — 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 311 
 
 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! 
 
 I am anxious to hear from you . . when am I not? — 
 but twt before the American letter is written and sent. Is 
 that done? And who was the visitor on Monday — and if 
 &c. what did he remark? — And what is right or wrong with 
 Saturday — is it to be mine? 
 
 Bless you, dearest — now and for ever. — words cannot 
 say how much I am your own. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, December 4, 1845. ] 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter) 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 our 
 arrangement, without a second thought. Monday stands 
 close by, remember, and there's a Saturday to follow Mon- 
 day . . and I should understand at a word, or apart from 
 a word. 
 
 •Just as you 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 cer- 
 tainly, . . more certainly than the thing may be known 
 by either me or you, . . that nothing in me could have 
 any part in making you twihappy, . . ah, would it not be 
 
312 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 4 
 
 enoTigh . . fhat knowledge . . to content me, to overjoy 
 me? but that lies too higli 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. 
 
 Wednesday. — 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 wnkind . . will tliat 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 cer- 
 tain knowledge, the world grows lighter round me? being 
 but a mortal woman, can I help it? no — certainly. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tet when you tell me that I ought to know some things, 
 though untold, you are wrong, and speak what is impossi- 
 ble. My imagination sits by the roadside omidiXo? like the 
 startled sea nymph in ^schylus, 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 more for me . . never! That 
 you should continue 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 ! 
 
 ' 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 Tibur- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 313 
 
 zio 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I lean on you and trust to you, and am always, as to 
 one who is all to me, 
 
 Tour own — 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, December 4, 1845. ] 
 
 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 . . pour cause. But since, 
 according to the Quarterly regime, 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 
 you, — 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 you ' &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 
 
314 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 4 
 
 I shall choose!) can it be *to your surprise?' can 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 Han- 
 well Asylum is different peradventure from what you take 
 it to be — we had better not examine it too nearly. You 
 never wiU say such words again? It is your promise to 
 me? Not those words — and not any in their likeness. 
 
 Also . . nothing is my 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. 
 
 Last year I had such an escape of seeing Mr. Home ; 
 and in this way it was. He was going to Germany, he 
 said, for an indefinite time, and took the trouble of beg- 
 ging me to receive him for ten minutes before he went. I 
 answered with my usual ' no, ' like a wild Indian — where- 
 upon 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 engage- 
 ments 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, 
 
[1845 AlifD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 315 
 
 . . may I not? Not that I ask you. It is a settled mat- 
 ter. And it is useful to keep out Mr. Chorley witli Mr. 
 Home, and Mr. Home with Mr. Chorley, and the rest of 
 the world with those two. Only the miracle is that yau 
 should be behind the enclosure — within it . . and so ! — 
 
 That is my side of the wonder ! of the machinery of the 
 wonder, . . as 7 see it ! — But there are greater things than 
 
 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 fore- 
 head and eyes and hair, . . but even that, thrown utterly 
 out of your order, by another bearing so unlike you . ! 
 speaking of that portrait . . shall I teU you? — Mr. Home 
 had the goodness to send me all those portraits, and I se- 
 lected the heads which, in right hero-worship, were any- 
 thing to me, and had them framed after a rough fashion 
 and hung up before my eyes ; Harriet Martineau's . . be- 
 cause she was a woman and admirable, and had written me 
 some kind letters — and for the rest, Wordsworth's, Car- 
 lyle'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 Para- 
 celsus. Oh no, it is not like — and I knew it was not, before 
 I saw you, though Mr. Kenyon said, ' Eather like ! ' 
 
 By the way Mr. Kenyon does not come. It is strange 
 that he should not come : when he told me that he could 
 
316 THE LETTEES OF ROBEET BROWNING [Dec. 4 
 
 not see me ' for a week or a fortnight, ' he meant it, I 
 suppose. 
 
 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. 
 
 It is not so much a look of ' ferocity,' . . as you say, 
 . . in that head, as of expression hy intention. 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. 
 
 So until Saturday. I read ' Luria ' and feel the life in 
 him. But walk and do not work! do you? 
 
 Wholly your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. 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 in- 
 difference about you noio . . and from the impossibility of 
 saying the/wZJof what I might; because other people were 
 by — and after, in the evening, when I should have rem- 
 edied 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; speak- 
 ing of you, — to you, — writing to you — all is helpless and 
 sorrowfid 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 — tliere 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 h qui de droit — 
 
1845] AJSTD ELIZABETH BARRETT 317 
 
 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, 'E. B.'! I don't know when I have had so 
 ghastly a visitation. There was the utterly forgotten let- 
 ter, in the as thoroughly disused hand-writing, in the . . 
 I fear . . stiU at completely obsolete feeling — no, not so 
 bad as that — but at first there was all the novelty, and so- 
 cial admiration at the friend — it is truly not right to i^luck 
 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 noth- 
 ing at all . . like the Chinese Air-plant ! Do you under- 
 stand this? And surely 'Ion' is a very, 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 won- 
 der, now it is hidlt 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 tliat 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 pleas- 
 ures 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 be- 
 come acquainted with. You say, ' I am a man and may 
 change ' — I answer, yes — but, while I hold my senses, only 
 change for the p-esumable better . . not for the experienced 
 worst. 
 
 Here is my Uncle's foot on the stair . . his knock hur- 
 
318 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Dec. 8 
 
 ried the last sentence — here 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 — 
 
 E. B, 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, Becember 8, 1845.] 
 
 Let me hear how you are, and that you are better in- 
 stead of worse for the exertions of last night. Aiter you 
 left me yesterday I considered how we might have man- 
 aged 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 Thurs- 
 day 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 ab- 
 surd 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 repent- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 319 
 
 ance. ! 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 ' opin- 
 ion ' 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 cry- 
 ing aloud against the editor of the ' Autography ' ! Surely 
 such a thing was never done before . . even by an au- 
 thor 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 wiU be in the American pa- 
 pers . . 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 any- 
 one'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 Eng- 
 lish. 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 
 
320 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 8 
 
 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 ques- 
 tion . . and I like that — do not you ? 
 
 Monday. — Now I have your letter: and you will ob- 
 serve, 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 de- 
 lighted that you have anything to repent, as I have every- 
 thing. 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 not 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. 
 
 I thought Mr. Kenyon would have come yesterday and 
 that I might have something to teU you, of him at least. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 321 
 
 And George never told me of tlie thing you found to say 
 to liim 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 Saturday, with a, . . ' So J. am to meet Mr. 
 Brovming? ' 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 ' Tor- 
 ick'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 aU 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 God bless and make you happy, as . . you will 
 lose nothing if I say . . as I am yours — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, December 9, 1845. J 
 
 Well, then, I am no longer sorry that I did not read 
 either of your letters . . for there were two in the coUec- 
 VOL. I.— 21 
 
322 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Dec. 9 
 
 tion. 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 dis- 
 tance which defied my short-sighted eye — aU 1 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 forever, I promise you, now that 
 you speak of vexation it would give you. AU I know of 
 the notes, that one is addressed to TaHourd in the third 
 person — and when I had run through my own . . not far 
 off . . (BA-BK) — 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 bril- 
 liant 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 , . be- 
 ginning, I think, with the Athencewm 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 — 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 pub- 
 lisher 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 pred- 
 ecessor in disgust at my ' rubbish, ' as their word went : 
 but Forster's notice altered a good deal — which I have to 
 recoUect for his good. Still, the contrast between myself 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 323 
 
 and Talfourd was so utter — you remember the world's- 
 wonder ' Ion ' made, — that I was determined not to pass 
 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 
 shine steadily over it? Why must you, who give me heart 
 and power, as nothing else did or could, to do well — con- 
 cern 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 
 hnow . . but what weight beside the divine gift of your- 
 self? Do not, dear, dearest, care for making me known : 
 you know me ! — and they know so little, after all your en- 
 deavour, 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 
 assented of course — and there was an end to the matter. 
 
 And might I have stayed till five ? — dearest, I wiU 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 some- 
 thing to forgive in me — for that shameful business — or I 
 
324 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Dec. 9 
 
 should not feel as I do in the matter : but you did forgive 
 me. 
 
 God bless my own, only love — ever — 
 
 Yours wholly 
 
 E. 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 Khomboid 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 com- 
 partmented, 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. E.. 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 B. 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 ; 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 325 
 
 only murmuring something besides of neither Thursday 
 nor Friday being disengaged days with him. Oh, my dis- 
 ingenuousness !— 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 se- 
 verity (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 for- 
 getting. And forget me . . when you are happier forget- 
 ting. 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 black- 
 thorn 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 AthencBum, but can well believe that it said what you 
 say. The Athenceum 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, 
 
326 THE LETTEKS OE EOBEKT BEOWNING [Dec. 10 
 
 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 / 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 ' shining ' . . shin- 
 ing . . 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 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. — 
 
 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. 
 
 Tour own — 
 
 But no — I did not forgive. Where was the fault to be 
 forgiven, except in me, for not being right in my meaning? 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, December 12, 1845.] 
 
 And now, my heart's love, I am waiting to hear from 
 you ; my heart is full of you. When I try to remember 
 what I said yesterday, that thought, of what fills my heart 
 — only tJiat makes me bear with the memory . . I know 
 that even such imperfect, poorest of words must have come 
 from 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 wait for the one day which I will never say to 
 myself cannot come, when I shall speak what I feel — more 
 of it — or some of it — for now nothing is spoken. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 327 
 
 My all-beloved — 
 
 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 expect of you, my love, that in 
 the event of any such necessity as was then alluded to, you 
 accept at once in my name any 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 more . . and yet ' I may tire 
 of you ' — ' may forget you ' ! 
 
 I wiU 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 but 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 — 
 
 I will write and pray it from you into a promise . . 
 and your promises I live upon. 
 
 May God bless you ! your R. B. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, December 13, 1845.]- 
 
 Do not blame me in your thoughts for what I said yes- 
 terday 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 you, dearest of aU! — but of myself rather: — it is not 
 doubt of you, but for 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 you I fear, when- 
 
328 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 13 
 
 ever I fear : — and if you were less to me, . . should 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, 
 then ? Think, and do not blame me. 
 
 To tell you to ' forget me when forgetting seemed hap- 
 piest for you,' . . (was it not <Aa<, I said?) proved more 
 affection than might go in smoother words . . I could 
 prove the truth of ikat out of my heart. 
 
 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. 
 Tou 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. 
 
 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 should, 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 be- 
 tween 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 thun- 
 der — and I shall be thundered at; I shall not be reasoned 
 with — it is impossible. I could tell you some dreary chron- 
 icles 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 329 
 
 the suspectors, but the informers are out of the world, I 
 am very sure: — and then, the one person, by a curious 
 anomaly, never draws an inference of this order, until the 
 bare blade of it is thrust palpably into his hand, point out- 
 wards. So it has been in other cases than our's — and so 
 it is, at this moment in the house, with others than our- 
 selves. 
 
 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. — 
 
 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 — (wiU 
 you, again?) — that it was all a mistake and you were only 
 calling for your boots ! "Well, if you said tJiat, 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 . . 
 
 ' 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 In- 
 dependent chapel, in the other ' — ? 
 
 ' Why even then, ' said my sister Arabel, ' it would not 
 do. ' And she was right, and we all agreed that she was 
 right. It is an obliquity of the will — and one laughs at 
 it tiU the turn comes for crying. Poor Henrietta has suf- 
 fered 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 ; 
 
330 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNDTG [Dec. 13 
 
 (it could be no sacrifice, you know — I did not want the 
 money, and could buy nothing with it so good as his hap- 
 piness, — ) 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 dan- 
 ger at present — and why ruffle this present with disquiet- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 There is another thing, of more consequence than his 
 thoughts, which is often in my mind to ask you of — but 
 there will be time for such questions — let us leave the win- 
 ter 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 iU, 
 if I can help it — and in the case of a tolerably mild winter, 
 and with aU this strength to use, there are probabilities for 
 me — and then I have sunshine from you, which is better 
 than Pisa's. 
 
 And what more would you say? Do I not hear and 
 understand ! It seems to me that I do both, or why aU 
 this wonder and gratitude? If the devotion of the remain- 
 der of my life could prove that I hear, . . would it be proof 
 enough? Proof enough perhaps — but not gift enough. 
 
 May God bless you always. 
 
 I have put some 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 331 
 
 it was and trial, wlien 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 haK : it will be 
 for life and death.' 
 
 So I put the hair into his locket, which I wear habit- 
 ually, 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. 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, December 15, 1845.] 
 
 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 reached you ! — meantime it is here. 
 Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest, dearest. 
 
 Wednesday I am waiting for — how waiting for ! 
 
 After all, it seems probable that there was no inten- 
 tional 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, being 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. 
 
 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 right meaning at 
 bottom of the wrong doing — wrong to itself and its plain 
 purpose — and meanwhile, the real tragedy and sacrifice of 
 a life! 
 
 If you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will 
 
332 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Dec. 15 
 
 be disengaged on Wednesday evening, I shall be glad to 
 go in that case. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I am all your own 
 KB. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, December 16, 1845.] 
 
 Mr. Kenyon has not come — he does not come so often, 
 I think. Did he Icnow from you 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 not tell him of Thursday dis- 
 tinctly (/ did not — remember !), he might take the Wednes- 
 day's visit to be the substitute for rather than the succes- 
 sor 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 me, please ! 
 
 How happy I am with your letter to-night. 
 
 When I had sent away my last letter I began to remem- 
 ber, 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 you ? — which brings me where I would stay. 
 Tes — ' yours ' it must be, but you, 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, 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 333 
 
 and do mean to behave well and be obedient. Tour wisli 
 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 sit- 
 ting too long in the sun. Yet ' idle ' may not be the word ! 
 silent I have been, through too many thoughts to speak 
 just that ! — 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. 
 
 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 understand how, after walk- 
 ing 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 that, you know ! 
 
 Yet even in that case, to doubt whether it may not all 
 be mirage, would be the natural first thought, the recurring 
 dream-fear ! now would it not? And you can reproach me 
 for my thoughts, as if they were unnatural ! 
 
 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 that is than even ' Luria.' 
 
 Mrs. Jameson came to-day — but I will tell you. 
 
 May God bless you now and always. 
 
 Your 
 E. B. B. 
 
834 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 17 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday evening. 
 [Post-mark, December 17, 1845.] 
 
 Henrietta had a note from Mr. Kenyon to the effect 
 that he was ' coming to see Ba ' to-day if in any way he 
 found it possible. Now he has not come — and the infer- 
 ence is that he will come to-morrow — in which case yon 
 wiU 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 before you come here? Think of it. 
 Tou know it would not do to vex him — would it? 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, December 19, 1845.] 
 
 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 tliere where 
 I look, rain might fall and winds blow while I listened to 
 you, long after the words 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. 
 
 She shall speak to me in places lone 
 With a low and holy tone — 
 Ay : when I have lit my lamp at night 
 She shall be present with my sprite : 
 And I will say, whate'er it be, 
 Every word she telleth me ! 
 
 Now, is that taken from your book? No — but from my 
 book, which holds my verses as I write them ; and as I 
 open it, I read that. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 335 
 
 And speaking of verse — somebody gave me a few days 
 ago that Mr. Lowell's book you once mentioned to me. 
 Anyone who ' admires ' you shall have my sympathy at 
 once — even though he do change the laughing wine-?7iarfc 
 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 re- 
 printed 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 profound- 
 est ignorance imaginable on the subjects treated of; but 
 these 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. Al- 
 ways 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 wanted Chau- 
 cer, 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 slioot, not climb higher — compost, they want in 
 the first place ! Ford's and Crashaw's rival Nightingales 
 — why they have been dissertated on by Wordsworth and 
 
336 THE LETTEES OF EOBEKT BEOWNING [Dec. 19 
 
 Coleridge, then by Lamb and Hazlitt, then worked to death 
 by Hunt, who printed them entire and qjioted 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 !) some- 
 thing at which ' John ' claps his hands and says ' Beally 
 — that these ancients should own so much wit &c ' ! The 
 passage 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 — they ever 
 beginning with all the old alacrity and spirit; but she bear- 
 ing 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 — 
 
 To which Mr. LoweU 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, — iJien, I shall be in no better humour with that 
 book than with Mr. Lowell's ! 
 
 But I have a new thing to say or sing — you never be- 
 fore heard me love and bless and send my heart after — 
 'Ba' — did you? Ba . . and that is you! I tried . . 
 (more than wanted) to call you that, 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 leafy 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 wiU not 
 part with the name — Barrett — seeing you have two of the 
 same — and must always, moreover, remain my EBB ! 
 
 Dearest ' E. B. C. ' no, no ! and so it will never be ! 
 
 Have you seen Mr. Kenyon? I did not write . . 
 knowing that such a procedure would draw the kind cure 
 letter in return, with the invitation &c., as if I had asked 
 
1845] AI^D ELIZABETH BARRETT 337 
 
 for it ! I had perhaps better call on him some morning 
 very early. 
 
 Bless you, my own sweetest. You will write to me, I 
 know in my heart ! Ever may God bless you ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] 
 
 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 are my happiness, and that therefore you could 
 not make another happiness for me, such as would be 
 worth having — not even yoit/ Why, how could you? That 
 was in my mind to speak yesterday, but I could not speak 
 it — to write it, is easier. 
 
 Talking of happiness — shall I tell you? Promise not 
 to be angry and I will tell you. I have thought some- 
 times 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 not choose it. I cannot 
 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. 
 
 For if you make me happy with some words, you 
 frighten me with others — as with the extravagance yester- 
 day — and seriously — too 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. 
 
 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 com- 
 
 VOL. I.— 33 
 
338 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 30 
 
 plainingly, I am sure (I can ttank God for most affec- 
 tionate friends!) not complainingly, yet mournfully and 
 in profound conviction — those words— 'jamais je n'aipas 
 et& aimSe comme j'aime.' The capacity of loving is the 
 largest of my powers I think — I thought so before know- 
 ing you — and one form of feeling. And although any 
 woman might love you — every woman, — with understand- 
 ing 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 in- 
 stead 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 de profundis amavi — • 
 
 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, disap- 
 point you, vex you — what if all those things were in my 
 fate? 
 
 And — (to begin !) — I am disappointed to-night. I ex- 
 pected 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. 
 
 Friday. — Remember you have had two notes of mine^ 
 and that it is certainly not my turn to write, though I am 
 writing. 
 
 Scarcely you had gone on Wednesday when Mr. Ken- 
 yon 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 hia 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 himseM loud 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 339 
 
 enoTigli for me to liear, 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. 
 
 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 
 you, 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 you, — you think otherwise, you 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 
 saw a woman, once, burst into tears, because her husband 
 cut the bread and butter too thick. I saw tlmt with my own 
 eyes. Was it sensibility, I wonder! They were at least 
 real tears and ran down her cheeks. ' You always do it ' ! 
 she said. 
 
 Why how you must sympathize with the heroes and 
 
340 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 20 
 
 heroines of tlie French romances {da 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 only used to upset them) break up 
 the tables and chairs and chiffoniers, and dash the china 
 to atoms. The men do 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 every- 
 thing in the room, they sink down quite (and very naturally) 
 abattus. I remember a particular case of a hero of Fred- 
 eric Soulie's, who, in the course of an ' emotion,' takes up 
 a chair unconsciously, and breaks it into very small pieces, 
 and then proceeds with his soliloquy. Well ! — the clear- 
 est idea this excites in me, is of the low condition in Paris, 
 of moral government and of upholstery. Because — just 
 consider for yourself — how you 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 comme 
 quatre, and find it hard to finish, I imagine. And then 
 as a demonstration, a child of six years old might demon- 
 strate just so (in his sphere) and be whipped accordingly. 
 
 How I go on writing ! — and you, who do not write at 
 all !— two extremes, one set against the other. 
 
 But I must say, though in ever such a 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 Eliz- 
 abeth by any one who loved me at aU, and I accept the 
 omen. So little it seems my name that if a voice said sud- 
 denly ' Elizabeth, ' I should as soon turn round as my sis- 
 ters would . . no sooner. Only, my own right name has 
 been complained of for want of euphony . . Ba . . now 
 and then it has — and Mr. Boyd makes a compromise and 
 calls me Elibet, because nothing could induce him to dese- 
 crate his organs accustomed to Attic harmonies, with a Ba. 
 So I am glad, and accept the omen. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 341 
 
 But I give you no credit for not thinking that I may 
 forget you . . I ! As if you did not see the difference ! 
 Why, / could not even forget to tvrite to you, observe ! — 
 
 Whenever you write, say how you are. Were you wet 
 on Wednesday? 
 
 Your own — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] 
 
 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? You it is, are my happiness, and all that ever 
 can be : YOU — dearest ! 
 
 But never, if you would not, what you will not do I 
 know, never revert to that 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 you 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 admira- 
 tion, and respect, and esteem and affection even, and do 
 not adduce any reason which stops short of accounting for 
 tliat, whatever else it would account for, because I do this, 
 in pure logical justice — you are able to turn and wonder (if 
 you do . . now) 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 would say this now — but I will write 
 more to-morrow. God bless my sweetest — ever, love, I am 
 
 your 
 
 E. B. 
 
342 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Dec. 30 
 
 But my letter came last night, did it not? 
 Another thing — no, to-morrow — for time presses, and, 
 in all cases, Tuesday — remember ! 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.] 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Betrospective Beview which 
 contains extracts ; and he re-extracts the extracts, re-quotes 
 the quotations, and, ' a pede Herculem, ' from the foot in- 
 fers 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 Drama- 
 tists 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 naivete in showing his author- 
 ity, — as if the Elizabethan poets lay mouldering in inac- 
 
1845 [ AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 343 
 
 cessible manuscript somewliere below the lowest deep of 
 Shakespeare's grave, — is curious beyond the rest! Alto- 
 gether, 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 His- 
 tory of France to M. Thiers. If they hnew more they 
 could not give parsley crowns to their own native poets 
 when there is greater merit among the rabbits. Mrs. Si- 
 gourney 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 Mil- 
 tonic 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 pretty book — would you not? Two or three letters 
 I have had from him . . all very kind ! — and tJiat 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 ! — 
 
 Do you remember how I tried to tell you what he said 
 of you, and how you would not let me? 
 
 Mr. Mathews said of him, having met him once in so- 
 ciety, that he was the concentration of conceit in appear- 
 ance and manner. But since then they seem to be on better 
 terms. 
 
 Where is the meaning, pray, of E. B. C. ? your mean- 
 ing, I mean? 
 
 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, Moul- 
 ton Barrett. So long it is, that to make it portable, I feU 
 into the habit of doubling it up and packing it closely, . . 
 
344 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Dkc. 20 
 
 and of forgetting that I waa a Moulton, altogether. One 
 might as well write the alphabet as all four initials. Tet 
 our family-name is Moulton Barrett, and my brothers re- 
 proach 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 Retrospec- 
 tive 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 ' Commina- 
 tion Service. ' ' 
 
 May God bless you always, always! beyond the al- 
 ways of this world ! — 
 
 Tour 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 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 produc- 
 tions, though quite free from what was reproached as bit- 
 terness and one-sidedness, last year. 
 
 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 so ! Tou imver ' ought ' to 
 write to me you hnoiu ! or rather . . if you ever think you 
 ought, you ought not ! Which is a speaking of mysteries 
 on my part ! 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 [Post-mark, December 22, 1845.] 
 
 Now, ' ought ' 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 do 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 345 
 
 make me most happy by such letters, and do not warm in 
 the reflection of your own rays, then I do give up indeed 
 the last chance of procuring you 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 might have drawn it down by one 
 of mine, — if I had begged never so gently, the gold would 
 have fallen — there was my omitted duty to myself which 
 you properly blame. I should stand silently and wait and 
 be sure of the ever-remembering goodness. 
 
 Let me count my gold now — and rub off any speck that 
 stays the full shining. First — that thought . . I told you; 
 I pray you, pray you, sweet — never that again — or what 
 leads never so remotely or indirectly to it ! On your own 
 fancied ground, 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 here, with me — what then? Say, you 
 take all of yourself away but just enough to live on; then, 
 that 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 stand there — and is it the 
 better that I have no broader space, when off that 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 gen- 
 erous creature I know you, to give me more and more be- 
 yond mere life — to extend life and deepen it — as you do, 
 and will do. Oh, how I love you when I think of the entire 
 truthfulness of your generosity to me— how, meaning and 
 willing to give, you gave nobly I Do you think I have not 
 seen in this world how women who do love will manage to 
 confer that gift on occasion? And shall I allow myself to 
 fancy how much alloy such pure gold as your love would 
 have rendered endurable? Yet it came, virgin ore, to com- 
 plete my fortune ! And what but this makes me confident 
 and happy? Can I take a lesson by your fancies, and 
 begin frightening myself with saying . . ' But if she saw 
 
846 THE LETTEE8 OE EOBEET BROWNING [Dec. 23 
 
 all the world — the worthier, better men there . . those 
 who would ' &c. &c. No, I think of the great, dear gift 
 that it was ; how I ' loon ' nothing (the hateful word, and 
 French thought) — did nothing by my own arts or clever-' 
 ness in the matter . . so what pretence have the more art- 
 ful 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 dis- 
 posed of by you as for the best. There ! It is not to be 
 spoken of — let me live it into proof, beloved ! 
 
 And for ' disappointment and a burden ' . . now — let 
 us get quite away from ourselves, and not see one of the 
 filaments, but only the cords of love with the world's horny 
 eye. Have we such jarring tastes, then? Does your inor- 
 dinate attachment to gay life interfere with my deep pas- 
 sion 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 vnth 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 not 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 that would 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 tran- 
 scended and the blest one. 
 
 But — ' here comes the Selah and the voice is hushed ' 
 
 — I will speak of other things. When we are together one 
 
 day— ths,,,daya„JLJielieve--in — I mean to set about that re- 
 
 / considering ' Sordello ' — it has always been rather on my 
 
 ii mind — but yesterday I was reading the * Purgatorio ' and 
 
 I the first speech of the group of which Sordello makes one 
 
 I struck me with a new significance, as well describing the 
 
-tMS] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 347 
 
 man and his purpose and fate in my own poem — see ; one 
 of the burthened, contorted souls tells Virgil and Dante — 
 
 Noi fummo gift tutti per forza morti, 
 ^peccatori infin' all' ultim' ora: 
 Quivi — lume del del nefece accorti; 
 Si chi, pentendo e perdonando, fora 
 Di vita uscimrno a Dio paeijicaU 
 Che del disio di se veder n'accora. ' 
 
 Whicli is just my Bordello's story . . could I ' c?o ' it off 
 hand, I wonder — 
 
 And sinners were we to the extreme hour ; 
 Then, light from heaven fell, making us aware, 
 So that, repenting us and pardoned, out 
 Of life we passed to God, at peace with Him 
 Who fills the heart with yearning Him to see. 
 
 There were many singular incidents attending my work 
 on that subject — thus, quite at the end, I found out there 
 was printed 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 Mura- 
 tori, 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 libretto 1 
 
 I wanted to teU you, in last letter, that when I spoke 
 of people's tempers you have no concern with ' people ' — I 
 do not glance obliquely at your temper — either to discover 
 it, or praise it, or adapt myself to it. I speak of the rela- 
 tion 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 supreme- 
 ly 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, 
 > ['Purg.' v. 53-7.] 
 
348 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [Dec. 20 
 
 of course — but I know what the other kind is. As for 
 the breakages of chairs, and the appreciation of Parisian 
 mevhles; manibus, pedibusque descendo in tuam senten- 
 tiam, Ba, ml ocelle ! (' What was E. B. C? ' why, the first 
 letter after, and not, E. B. B, my own B! There was no 
 latent meaning in the C — but I had no inclination to go 
 on to D, or E, for instance). 
 
 And so, love, Tuesday is to be our day — one day more 
 — and then ! And meanwhile ' care ' for me ! a good word 
 for you — but my care, what is that ! One day I aspire to 
 care, 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 ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 U. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 [Post-mark, December 24, 1845.] 
 
 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 
 (not overZove) I must be frightened as I told you. 
 
 It is with me as with the theologians. I believe in you 
 and can be happy and safe so; 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. ' 
 
 Do I tease you as I teas© 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 thistle besides. The 
 thistles are the corollary. 
 
1845] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 349 
 
 For it is obvious — manifest — tliat I cannot doubt of 
 you, that I may doubt of myself, of happiness, of the whole 
 world, — but of ymi, — not: it is obvious that if I could doubt 
 of you and act so I should be a very idiot, or worse indeed. 
 And you . . you think I doubt of you whenever I make an 
 interjection! — now do you not? And is it reasonable? — 
 Of you, I mean? 
 
 Monday. — For my part, you must admit it to be too 
 possible that you may be, as I say, ' disappointed ' in me — 
 it is too possible. And if it does me good to say so, even 
 now perhaps . . if it is mere weakness to say so and sim- 
 ply torments you, why do you be magnanimous and forgive 
 that . . let it pass as a weakness and forgive it so. Often 
 I think painful things which I do not tell you and . . . 
 
 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 ' ought not ' 
 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 you, and that the light you bring me (from 
 my fault! — from the nature of my darkness !) is not a set- 
 tled 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 intermis- 
 sion 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 then.' — 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 dark- 
 ness.' Tet even when I grow too wise, I admit always 
 that while you love me it is an answer to all. And I am 
 
S50 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 24 
 
 never so mucli 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. 
 
 And it could be so much to you to lose me ! — and you 
 say so, — and then think it needful to tell me not to think 
 the other thought. ! As if that were possible ! Do you re- 
 member 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 . . ' Lave me for 
 ever '? Well then, . . 1 do. 
 
 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 have 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. 
 
 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 exact- 
 ing it is for you and not for me — it is altogether for you — 
 you understand that, dearest of all . . it is for you wholly. 
 It never crosses my thought, in a lightning even, the ques- 
 tion whether I may be happy so and so — /. It is the other 
 question which comes always — too often for peace. 
 
 People used to say to me, ' Tou 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 
 
1845J AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 351 
 
 how often I have said that ! ) I never thought that any- 
 one whom I could love, would stoop to love me . . the 
 two things seemed clearly incompatible to my under- 
 standing. 
 
 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 Iwm. You wonder that it should seem 
 to me at first all illusion — illusion for you, — illusion for 
 me as a consequence. But how natural. 
 
 It is true of me — very true — that I have not a high ap- 
 preciation of what passes in the world (and not merely the 
 Tomkins-world !) under the name of love; and that a dis- 
 trust 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 falseness quite on one side, quite out of sight and 
 consideration, an honest mistaking of feeling appears won- 
 derfully 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 fe- 
 male friends — to go no step further ! And if it is true of 
 the women, what must the other side be? To see the mar- 
 riages 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 extraordi- 
 nary happiness, . . ' But I should have done as well if I 
 had not married her. ' 
 
 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 
 
352 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BROWNING [Dec. 24 
 
 from a man of whose attentions to another woman I was at 
 that time her confidante. 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 ! 
 
 The falseness and the calculations ! — why how can you, 
 who are just, blame women . . 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 ' honour- 
 able 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 affec- 
 tions . . (they with their feet lifted all the time to trample 
 on her for want of delicacy) before they risk the pin-prick 
 to their own personal pitiful vanities? Oh — to see how 
 these things are set about by men I to see how a man care- 
 fully 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 dis- 
 loyal 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 you 
 . . with whatever corrupt inclination? you, who are the 
 noblest of all? If you judge me so, . . it is my privilege 
 rather than my merit . . as I feel of myself. 
 
 Wednesday. — All but the last few lines of all this was 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 353 
 
 written before I saw you yesterday, ever dearest — and 
 since, I liave been reading your third act whicli is perfectly 
 noble and worthy of you both in the conception and ex- 
 pression, 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. Tou 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 
 wiU 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 
 not. WiU he not? 
 
 And never, never for a moment (I quite forgot to tell 
 you) did I fancy that you were talking at me 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 sim- 
 ply amused a little by what you said, and thought to my- 
 self (if you will 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 ashed me directly ; — if you had wished 
 ' curiously to enquire. ' 
 
 An excellent solemn chiming, the passage from Dante 
 makes with your 'Sordello,' and the 'Sordello' deserves 
 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 while you are going 
 straight forward you go at the same time round and round, 
 Vol. I.— 23 
 
354 THE LETTERS Or EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 34 
 
 until the progress involved in the motion is lost sight of 
 by the lookers on. Or did I tell you that before? 
 
 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? 
 
 Is not this an infinite letter? I shall hear from you, I 
 hope . . I ash you to let me hear soon. I write all sorts 
 of things to you, rightly and wrongly perhaps; when 
 wrongly, forgive it. I thiiJj; of you always. May God 
 bless you. ' Love me for ever, ' as 
 
 Your 
 
 Ba. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 25th Dec. [1845.] 
 
 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! 
 
 All is right, all of your letter . . admirably right and 
 just in the defence of the women I seemed 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 insisting on, and 
 giving an undue prominence to, the same— which has the 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 355 
 
 effect of taking away from the importance of tlie rest of 
 the related objects which, in truth, are not considered at 
 all . . or they would also rise proportionally when sub- 
 jected to the same (that is, correspondingly magnified and 
 dilated) light and concentrated feeling. So, you remem- 
 ber, 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.' But then . . if you look 
 on the world altogether, and accept the small natures, in 
 their usual proportion with the greater . . things do not 
 look quite so bad ; because the conduct which is atrocious 
 in those higher cases, of proposal and acceptance, may 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 poli- 
 cies 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 put- 
 ting 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 ap- 
 pealed to — high motives supposed, 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 Excel- 
 lency ' 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 
 pljrase, ' the world must go on. ' He who honestly wants 
 
356 THE LETTEES OF EOBEKT BROWNING [Dec. 35 
 
 his wife to sit at the head of his table and carve . . that 
 is be his help-meat (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 wovM 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 Market- Woman, Being a Table of ' 
 &c &c — tlien, I say he is — 
 
 Bless you, dearest — the clock strikes— and time is 
 none — but — bless you 1 
 
 Tour own R. B. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday, 4. p. m. 
 [Post-mark, December 37, 1845, ] 
 
 I was forced to leave off abruptly on Christmas Morn- 
 ing — and now I have but a few minutes before our inex- 
 orable post leaves. I hoped to return from Town earlier. 
 But I can say something— and Monday will make amends. 
 
 ' For ever ' and for ever I do love you, dearest — love 
 you with my whole heart — in life, in death — 
 
 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! 
 
 Too good, too, too indulgent you are, my own Ba, to 
 ' acts ' first or last; but all the same, I am glad and en- 
 couraged. Let me get done with these, and better things 
 will follow. 
 
 Now, bless you, ever, my sweetest — I have you ever in 
 my thoughts — And on Monday, remember, I am to see 
 you. 
 
 Your own E. B. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 357 
 
 See what I cut out of a Cambridge Advertiser' of tlie 
 24th. — to make you laugh! 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, December 37, 1845.] 
 
 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 that is 
 the way for making aU sorts of mistakes dependent on and 
 issuing in exaggeration. It is the very way ! — the highway. 
 
 For what you say in the letter here otherwise, I do not 
 deny the truth — as partial truth: — I was speaking gen- 
 erally quite. Admit that I am not apt to be extravagant 
 in my esprit de sexe : the Martineau doctrines of intellec- 
 tual 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 
 here , . it is not so much our fault. Which was all I 
 meant to say from the beginning. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 To the motive, the endeavour, — the heart's self — 
 Your quick sense looks ; you crown and call aright 
 The soul of the purpose ere 'tis shaped as act. 
 Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king; 
 
 ' [The cutting enclosed is : — 'A Few Ehymes for the Present Christ- 
 mas' by J. PurchasEsci. , B.A. It is headed by several quotations, the 
 first of which is signed 'Elizabeth B. Barrett : ' 
 
 'This age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam, 
 Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God. ' 
 This is followed by extracts from Pindar, ' Lear, ' and the Hon. Mrs. 
 Norton. ] 
 
358 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 27 
 
 except tlie characterizing of the ' learned praise, ' whicli 
 conies 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 ! Tou shall tell Mr. Forster so. 
 
 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 dex- 
 terity .... 
 
 ..." so slight, so slight, 
 And yet it tells you they are dead and gone ' — 
 
 And then, the direct approach . . 
 
 Tou now, so kind here, all you Florentines, 
 What is it in your eyes? — 
 
 Do you not feel it to be success, . . 'you now?' 7 do, 
 from my low ground as reader. The whole breaking round 
 him of the cloud, and the manner in which he stands, fac- 
 ing it, . . I admire it all thoroughly. Braccio's vindica- 
 tion of Florence strikes me as almost too poetically subtle 
 for the man — but nobody could have the heart to wish a 
 line of it away — tliat would be too much for critical virtue ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Am I see you on Monday? If there should be the 
 least, least crossing of that day, . . anything to do, any- 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 359 
 
 thing to see, anything to listen to, — remember how Tues- 
 day stands close by, and that another Monday comes on 
 the following week. Now I need not say that every time, 
 and you will please to remember it — Eccellenza ! — 
 
 May God bless you — 
 
 Tour 
 E. B. B. 
 
 From the New Monthly Magazine. ' The admirers of 
 Robert Browning's poetry, and they are now very numer- 
 ous, will be glad to hear of the issue by Mr. Moxon of a 
 seventh series of the renowned Bells and delicious Pome- 
 granates, under the title of "Dramatic Eomances and 
 Lyrics. ' " 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, December 30, 1845.] 
 
 "When you are gone I find your flowers ; and you never 
 spoke of nor showed them to me — so instead of yester- 
 day I thank you to-day — thank you. Count among the 
 miracles that your flowers live with me — I accept that for 
 an omen, dear — dearest! Flowers in general, all other 
 flowers, die of despair when they come into the same at- 
 mosphere . . 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 fancj' ! 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 — that 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. 
 
 Do not pretend even to misiinderstand 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 
 
360 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 30 
 
 — ' 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 h propos to the flies or but- 
 terflies, that he had ' long ceased to wonder at any extreme 
 of foolishness produced by — love. ' He will of course think 
 you very very foolish, but not ungenerously foolish like 
 other people. 
 
 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 do 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 demon- 
 strated to stand with us. On this one point the wise man 
 cannot judge for the fool his neighbour. If you do 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 you and not of them — always of you ! 
 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 peo- 
 ple 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 that might not be effectual if I had re- 
 course to it now. Do you think it would? Two or three 
 times I fancied that Mr. Kenyon suspected something — 
 but if he ever did, his only reproof was a reduplicated 
 praise of you — he praises you always and in relation to 
 every sort of subject. 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 361 
 
 Wliat a misomonsism you fell into yesterday, you who 
 have so much great work to do which no one else can do except 
 just yourself ! — and you, too, who have courage and know- 
 ledge, and must know that every work, with the principle 
 of life in it, will 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, except 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 (^rod like the conversation-teachers. So much I have 
 to say to you, till we are in the Siren's island — and /, 
 jealous of the Siren ! — 
 
 The Siren waits thee singing song for song, 
 
 says Mr. Landor. A prophecy which refuses to class you 
 with the ' mute fishes, ' precisely as I do. 
 
 And are you not my ' good ' — all my good now^ — my 
 only good ever? The Italians would say it better without 
 saying more. 
 
 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 can- 
 not 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. 
 
 So here is my letter to you, which you asked for so 
 
362 THE LBTTEES OF EOBEET BROWNING [Dec. 30 
 
 '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 con- 
 science 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 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. 
 Do 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 ! ' 
 
 May God bless you — and mind to say how you are 
 exactly, and don't neglect the walking, pray do not. 
 
 Tour own 
 
 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 feteling — and what else 
 but that 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 circum- 
 stances, better spoken at whatever cost — I have thought so 
 steadily since I could think or feel at all. An entire open- 
 ness 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. 
 
1845] AND ElilZABETH BAEEETT 363 
 
 2?. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Wednesday, December 31, 1845. 
 
 I Lave been properly punished for so much treachery 
 as went to that re-urging the prayer that you would begin 
 writing, when all the time (after the first of those words 
 had been spoken which bade me write) I was full of pur- 
 pose 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. Home — on the point of set- 
 ting 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-Tear'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. Tes, dearest, that is 
 the meaning of the prophecy, which I was stupidly blind 
 not to have read and taken comfort from long ago. You 
 AEE the veritable Siren — and you ' wait me, ' and will sing 
 ' song for song. ' And this is my first song, my true song 
 
364 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Dec. 31 
 
 — this love I bear you — I look into my heart and then let 
 it go forth under that name — love. I am more than mis- 
 trustful 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. 
 
 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^aci, 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 ihen I 
 seem to have said nothing of my feeling to you — nothing 
 whatever. 
 
 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! 
 
 May God bless you ever — through you I shall be 
 blessed. May I kiss your cheek and pray this, my own, 
 all-beloved? 
 
 I must add a word or two of other things. I am very 
 well now, quite well — am walking and about to walk. 
 Home, 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 what- 
 ever 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 ' knew ' 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 
 
1845] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 365 
 
 evergreens and thatched summer house— to say nothing 
 of the ' invisible railing ' miserably visible everywhere. 
 
 Tou very well know what a vision it is you give me — 
 when you speak of standing up by the table 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 — omne ignotum? No, dearest! 
 
 Ought I to say there will be two days more? till Satur- 
 day — and if one word comes, one line — think ! 
 
 I am wholly yours — yours, beloved ! 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 January 1, 1845 [1846]. 
 
 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 ab- 
 straction — then the thoughts of you, a little clearer, in con- 
 crete personality, as Mr. Kenyon's friend, who had dined 
 with him on such a day, or met him at dinner on such an- 
 other, and said some great memorable thing ' on Wednes- 
 day last, ' and enquired kindly about me perhaps on Thurs- 
 day, — 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 remem- 
 ber?) ' 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 aU these, 
 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 your flowers ! 
 And I am not ' ashamed ' of mine, . . be very sure ! no I 
 
366 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 1 
 
 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. That would have been most exemp- 
 larily modest of me ! would it not, O Ulysses? 
 
 And you meant to write, . . you meant ! and went to 
 walk in ' Poet's lane ' instead, (in the ' Aonius of High- 
 gate ') 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 hills at New Cross, and not hills by courtesy? 
 I was at Hampstead once — and there was something attrac- 
 tive 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 crea- 
 tures ruminate stupidly as the cows do, the ' county fami- 
 lies ' ea-chewing 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 ' moral- 
 ize 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 can be so bad— nothing! That is the way by 
 which Englishmen grow up to top the world in their pe- 
 culiar line of respectable absurdities. 
 
 Think of my talking so as if I could be vexed with any 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 367 
 
 one of them 1 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, be- 
 cause ' the distance is so convenient, ' and give great din- 
 ners 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 my 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 that ! 
 
 May God bless you, best and dearest ! Too 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. 
 
 Yet He knows, — if the entireness of a gift means any- 
 thing, — 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 /o?' you rather than against 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 me . . for my sake rather than yours. 
 For the rest, I thank you, I thank you. Tou will be al- 
 ways to me, what to-day you are — and that is aU! — ! 
 
 I am your own — 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 [Poat-mark, January 5, 1846.] 
 
 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 should be thought of, unless to be forgiven ! But I do, 
 dearest, feel confident that while I am in your mind — cared 
 
368 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 5 
 
 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; myseii, best self! 
 Come, let us talk. I found Home'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 marlingspike 
 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 
 real 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, is 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, par paren- 
 these, you have found out by this time my odd liking for 
 ' vermin ' — you once wrote ' your snails ' — and certainly 
 snails are old clients of mine — but efts ! Home 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 lizard in a 
 sunny stream ' to ' Cold as a newt hid in a shady brook ' 
 — for ' what do you 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 after- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 369 
 
 wards learn ttat there is more desperation in it and glori- 
 ous determination to be free, than positive pain (so people 
 say who have no tails to be twisted off) — and though, more- 
 over, the tail grows again after a sort — yet . . don't do it, 
 for it will give you a thrill ! What a fine fellow our Eng- 
 lish water-eft is ; ' Triton paludis Linnaei ' — e cmne guizza 
 (that you can't say in another language; cannot preserve 
 the little in-and-out motion along with the straightforward- 
 ness !) — I always loved aU those wild creatures God ' sets 
 up for themselves ' 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 Qjjdipus's grave-place, 'mid Colone's olives swart ' 
 — (Kiss me, my Siren !)— Well, it seemed awful to watch 
 that bee — he seemed so instantly from the teaching of God ! 
 ^lian says that . . a frog, does he say? — some animal, 
 having to swim across the Nile, never fails to provide him- 
 self 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 meet- 
 ing heads, the frog's wide eyes and the vexation of the 
 snake ! 
 
 Now, see! do I deceive you? Never say I began by 
 letting down my dignity ' that with no middle flight in- 
 tends to soar above the Aonian Mount ' ! — 
 
 My best, dear, dear one, — may you be better, less de- 
 pressed, . . 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 may take up stones and pelt the next I see 
 — but — do you much fear that?— Now, walk, move, guizza, 
 Vol. I.— 24 
 
370 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 5 
 
 anima mia dolce. Shall I not know one day how far your 
 mouth will be from mine as we walk? May I let that stay 
 . . dearest, (the line stay, not the mouth)? 
 
 I am not very well to-day — or, rather, have not been 
 so — now, I am well and with you. 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 ! — 
 
 Tell me if I do wrong to send this by a morm'ng post — 
 so as to reach you earlier than the evening— when you will 
 . . write to me? 
 
 Don't let me forget to say that I shall receive the 
 Beview to-morrow, and will send it directly. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, January 6, 1846. ] 
 
 When you get Mr. Home'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, estimat- 
 ing 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 — 
 
 Like to the cloud upon the hill 
 We are a moment seen 
 Or the shadow of the windmill 
 Across yon sunny slope of green. 
 
 New or not, and I don't remember it elsewhere, it is just 
 
1846] A^T> ELIZABETH BAEEETT 371 
 
 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 char- 
 acter 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 looh at 
 things, as on the satyr who swears by his horns and mates 
 not with his kind afterwards, ' While, holding beards, they 
 dance in pairs' — and that is all excellent and reminds one 
 of those fine sylvan festivals, ' in Orion. ' But now teU 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. Home? 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 . , * macJiina 
 intersit' . . Grandmama Grey! — to say nothing of the 
 'small dog' that isn't the 'small boy.' Mr. Home suc- 
 ceeds better on a larger canvass, and with weightier ma- 
 terial; 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 hon- 
 estly 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. 
 
372 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Jan. 6 
 
 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 . . Mon- 
 day! Did you think of that — 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 paus- 
 ing of the post in consequence. 
 
 Tou 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 im- 
 pression 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 illu- 
 sion. ' People say, ' I used to think, ' that women always 
 know, and certainly I do not know, and therefore . . there- 
 fore.' — 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 you — ! 
 
 Monday. — ^Never too early can the light come. Thank 
 you for my letter ! Tet 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 373 
 
 really like that? admire it? Grandmama Grey and the 
 night cap and all? and ' shoetye and blue sky? ' and ia 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 eH 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 pres- 
 ently. Tou 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 excel- 
 lent critical smoothness such as Mr. Forster did his last 
 Examiner 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. Tour 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 — 
 
 The long heard fell like snow into the grave 
 With solemn grace 
 
 A poet, a friend, a generous man Mr. Home is, even if no 
 laureate for the fairies. 
 
 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 Mis- 
 sion ' and the rest. As if any possible good were to be 
 done by such expositions of rights and wrongs. 
 
 Tour letter would be worth them all, if you were less 
 you ! 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 — par- 
 
374 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 6 
 
 ticularly 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 his- 
 tory-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. 
 
 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 smoth- 
 ered 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 hat; 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 ! 
 
 You have not been well — which is my first thought if 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 375 
 
 not my first word. Do walk, and do not work; and think 
 . , what I could be thinking of, if I did not think of 
 you. . 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 you — 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. Tou must know what you are to me if you 
 know at all what 7 am, — and what I should be but for you. 
 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 you as you believe . . in .^lian — Will that do? 
 
 Your own — 
 
 Say how you are when you write — and write. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 
 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 am to write of you, dearest, and it must come to 
 something rather better than that! 
 
 I am forced to send now what is to be sent at all. Bless 
 you, dearest. I am trusting to hear from you — 
 
 Your E. B. 
 
 And I find by a note from a fairer friend and favourer 
 of mine that in the Neio Quarterly ' Mr. Browning ' figures 
 pleasantly as * one without any sympathy for a human 
 being ! ' — Then, for newts and efts, at all events ! 
 
376 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWKING [Jan. 7 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Night. 
 [Post-mark, January '7, 1846.] 
 
 But, my sweet, tliere 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 auda- 
 cious step tliere, and the next . . which is nowhere, see- 
 ing it is not in the letter. Quite otherwise in personal in- 
 tercourse, 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 tliere, just there . . and you may 
 think of that, and forgive ; at all events, may avoid speak- 
 ing irrevocable words — and when, as to me, those words 
 are intensely true, doom-words — think, dearest ! Because, 
 as I told you once, what most characterizes my feeling for 
 you is the perfect respect in it, the full helief . . (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 inter- 
 preting, 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 hor- 
 rible 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 be- 
 ginning, — I do believe, — now, 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 con- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 377 
 
 sideration 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, 
 believing you, have never again renewed directly or indi- 
 rectly 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 the outside, now, and not in 
 your livery ! Now, if I should have acted thus under any 
 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 then, 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 that 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, then — in what would seem little only to me, 
 only with this great happiness? I should have been proud 
 beyond measure — happy past aU desert, to call and be al- 
 lowed to see you simply, speak with you and be spoken 
 to — what am I more than others? Don't think this mock 
 humility — it is not — you take me in your mantle, and we 
 shine together, but I know my part in it ! All this is writ- 
 ten breathlessly on a sudden fancy that you might — 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 famess in the visits ! And, love, all love 
 is but a passionate drawing closer — I would be one with 
 you, dearest ; let my soul press close to you, as my lips, 
 dear life of my life. 
 
378 THE LETTERS OP EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 7 
 
 Wednesday. — ^You are entirely right about those poems 
 of Home'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 so safe. So I began by 
 praising aU 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 chil- 
 dren; 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 com- 
 plete man one is, by half; any patronizing minute to be 
 spent in the nursery over the books and work and health- 
 ful 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, 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 Home thinks of — yon, dearest; 
 how he knew you first, and from the soul admired you ; 
 and how little he thinks of my good fortune . . I cmdd 
 NOT 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 none, no reward, I do 
 think, would he less willingly forego than your praise and 
 sympathy. But your opinion once expressed — truth re- 
 
1846] A^D ELIZABETH BAEEETT 379 
 
 mains the truth — so, at least, I e-xcuse myself . . and quite 
 as much for what I say now as for what was said then 1 
 ' King John ' is very fine and full of purpose ; ' The Noble 
 Heart,' sadly faint and uncharacteristic. The chief inci- 
 dent, too, turns on that poor conventional fallacy about 
 what constitutes a proper wrong to resist — a piece of mo- 
 rality, 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 pa- 
 tiently 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' — tliat is plain, too, — but, 
 call Otto's act nx) 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 punish- 
 ment of instant death to the remarker— and . . where is 
 the way? What is clear? 
 
 — Not my letter ! which goes on and on — ' dear letters ' 
 — sweetest? because they cost aU 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. 
 
 Last night, I received a copy of the New Quarterly — 
 now here is popular praise, a sprig of it ! Instead of the 
 attack I supposed it to be, from my foolish friend's ac- 
 count, the notice is outrageously eulogistical, a stupidly 
 extravagant laudation from first to last — and in tJiree other 
 articles, as my sister finds by diligent fishing, they intro- 
 duce my name with the same felicitous praise (except one 
 
380 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 7 
 
 instance, though, in a good article by Chorley I am cer- 
 tain) ; and vnth, me I don't know how many poetical critins 
 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. 
 
 All which, let me forget in the thoughts of to-morrow ! 
 Bless you, my Ba. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, January 7, 1846. ] 
 
 But some things are indeed said very truly, and as I 
 like to read them — of you, 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. ' Para- 
 celsus ' is a great work and will live, 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 here.' What 
 had he to do else, as a critic? Was he writing for the 
 Retrospective Review ? 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 — yours ! 
 
 For me, it is all quite kind enough — only I object, on 
 
1846] AJSB ELIZABETH BAERETT 381 
 
 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 
 my faults! When I wrote the ' Komaunt of Margret,' I 
 had not read a line of Tennyson. I came from the coun- 
 try with my eyes only half open, and he had not pene- 
 trated 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 . . favente Moxon, . . I 
 was ignorant of his best early productions ; and not even 
 for the rhy thmetical form of my ' Yision of the Poets, ' was 
 I indebted to the ' Two Voices, ' — three pages of my ' Vi- 
 sion ' having been written several years ago — at the begin- 
 ning 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 read 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 imi- 
 tated Darwin ' of course, as the infallible critic said so. 
 
 And who are Mr. Helps and Miss Emma Fisher and 
 the ' many others, ' whose company brings one down to the 
 right plebeiauism? The ' three poets in three distant ages 
 born ' may well stare amazed. 
 
 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 there. 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 
 
382 THE LETTEKS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Jan. 7 
 
 a poetess — as black ' as bard beseemed ' — and he took the 
 review away with him to read and save it from more harm. 
 
 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 Imte 
 writing to me? 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Omne ignotum pro magnifico' — do you think so .? I 
 hope not indeed! vo quitando — and everything else that 
 I ought to do — except of course, that thinking of you which 
 is so difficult. 
 
 May God bless you. Till to-morrow ! 
 
 Your own always. 
 
 Mr. Kenyon refers to ' Festus ' — of which I had said 
 that the fine things were worth looking for, in the design 
 manque. 
 
 U. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, January 9, 1846. ] 
 
 You never think, ever dearest, that I ' repent ' — why 
 what a word to use ! You never could think 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 no 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 883 
 
 extreme case, could I repent for my own sake. For yours, 
 it might be different. 
 
 Not out of ' generosity ' certainly, but from the veriest 
 selfishness, I choose here, before God, any possible pres- 
 ent evil, rather than the future consciousness of feeling 
 myself less to you, on the whole, than another woman 
 might have been. 
 
 Oh, these vain and most heathenish repetitions — do I 
 not vex you by them, you whom 1 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. 
 Cloth of frieze, be not too bold, 
 Though thou'rt matched with cloth of gold ! 
 
 — that, beloved, was written for me. And you, if you would 
 make me happy, always 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 vacillating, 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 ready for application. I love you 
 from the deepest of my nature — the whole world is noth- 
 " ing to me beside you — and what is so precious, is not far 
 from being terrible. ' How dreadful is this place. ' 
 
 To hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought 
 for to-day, — it was with such a full assent that I listened 
 
384 THE LETTEKS OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan, 9 
 
 to every word. Ifc is true, I thiDk, 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 you so well 
 (yes, I boast to myself of that intimate knowledge), that I 
 seem to know also the idola 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, have 
 I been curious or anxious? It was enough for me to know 
 you. 
 
 More than enough ! Tou have * left undone ' — do you 
 say? On the contrary, you have done too much, — you are 
 too much. My cup, — which used to hold at the bottom of 
 it just the drop of Heaven dew mingling with the absin- 
 thus,^ — has overflowed all this wine: and that makes me 
 look out for the vases, which would have held it better, 
 had you stretched out your hand for them. 
 
 Say how you are — and do take care and exercise — and 
 write to me, dearest ! 
 
 Ever your own — 
 
 Ba. 
 
 How right you are about 'Ben Capstan,' — and the 
 illustration by the yellow clay. 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 385 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 
 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 — 
 c'est convenu! The other precious volume has not 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 ! 
 
 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 is achieved and that I do 
 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. 
 
 Rest — dearest — bless you — 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post- mark, January 10, 1846.] 
 
 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, dc 
 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. Tet 
 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 
 Vol. I.— 25 
 
386 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNINGr [Jan. 10 
 
 said tlian another, it is precisely that saying, which Mr. 
 Mackay stands up to catch the reversion of ! Do you in- 
 deed suppose that Heraud could have done this? I scarce- 
 ly 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 shall 
 Iwbve ' Pauline ' in a day or two — yes, I shall and must, and 
 will. ' 
 
 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 savoir /aire nevertheless, and always a 
 rightness and purity of intention. Observe what he saya 
 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 bends 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 aU 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 
 towfird the north and now toward the south while its natu- 
 ral leaning is due east or west, is different altogether . . 
 as different as a willow-tree from a church tower. 
 
 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 is too much, perhaps. Shall I tell 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 387 
 
 you? it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever be- 
 fore to any woman what you are to me — the fulness must 
 be in proportion, you know, to the vacancy . . and only 1 
 know what was behind — the long wilderness without 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 disbe- 
 lieve — not you — 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 more, 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. 
 
 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 — that is all 
 I could ask you with any disquiet as to the granting of 
 it — May God bless you ! — 
 
 Tour 
 
 But you have the review now — surely? 
 
 The Morning Chronicle attributes the authorship of 
 ' Modern Poets ' {our article) to Lord John Manners — so 
 I hear this morning. I have not yet looked at the paper 
 myself. The Athenceum, still abominably dumb ! — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, January 10, 1846.] 
 
 This is no 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 
 
388 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Jan. 10 
 
 seemed tlae 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 ! 1 am entirely yours, 
 
 — one gratitude, all my soul becomes when I see you over 
 me as now — God bless my dear, dearest. 
 
 My ' Act Fourth ' is done — but too roughly this time ! 
 I will tell you — 
 
 One kiss more, dearest ! 
 
 Thanks for the Review. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, January 12, 1846.] 
 
 I have no words for you, my dearest, — I shall never 
 have. 
 
 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 can only be little, so very 
 little now — and as the fine French Chemical Analysts bring 
 themselves to appreciate matter in its refined stages by 
 millionths, so — ! At first I only thought of being Ivappy 
 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 after, 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 die — and Joy whose hand is ever at 
 his lips, bidding farewell.' And who spoke of — looking 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 389 
 
 up into the eyes and asking ' And how long 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 ! 
 
 And /^am to love no longer than I can. Well, dear — 
 and when I can no longer — you will not blame me? Tou 
 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 that 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 soid, 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 ex- 
 empt — just as God bids us ask for the continuance of the 
 ' daily bread ' — ' battle, murder and sudden death ' lie be- 
 hind 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 wonder- 
 ful lenity when it becomes our own, . . that I only con- 
 template the possibility you make me recognize, with pity, 
 and fear . . no anger at aU; and imprecations of ven- 
 geance, for what ? Observe, I only speak of cases possible ; 
 
 of sudden impotency of mind; that is possible there are 
 
 other ways of ' changing, ' ' ceasing to love ' &c. which it is 
 safest not to think of nor believe in. A man may 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, so, liable to be smashed, — do 
 
390 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 12 
 
 you see? And now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, 
 only Ba — see no more — see what I am, 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 will be as sure of me 
 one day as I can be now of myself — and why not now be 
 sure? See, love^a year is gone by — we were in one rela- 
 tion when you wrote at the end of a letter ' Do not say I 
 do not tire you ' (by writing) — ' lam sure I do.' A year 
 has gone by — Did you tire me then? Now, 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, ' Were you not 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 
 aU 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 that 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 noio before the few years, 
 and believe in it n/)w, for then, dearest ! 
 
 Must you see ' Pauline ' ? A 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 words quoted were his, I 
 am sure — as sure as that he knows not whether Boccaccio 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 391 
 
 lived before or after Shakspeare, wHetlier Florence or Eome 
 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 buyer of other 
 men's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he bought two 
 modernisations of Chaucer — ' Ugolino ' and another story 
 from Leigh Hunt — and one, ' Sir Thopas ' from Home, 
 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 his, he being a large proprietor of the delectable prop- 
 erty, 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 cis one by his 
 friend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, 
 Powell the aforesaid, — cutting, in consequence, no inglori- 
 ous figure in the eyes of Printer and Publisher ! Now I 
 was away all this time in Italy or he would never have ven- 
 tured 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. PoweU treated with all the insolence in the 
 world — because, as the event showed, the having to write 
 a cheque for ' the Author of the Article ' — that author's 
 name not being Talfourd's . . there was certain disgrace ! 
 Since then (ten months ago) I have never seen him — and 
 he accuses himself, 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 
 
392 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 13 
 
 you 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 acquaint- 
 ance) 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 per- 
 haps, 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 tliat 
 way he would get near to me again; near indeed this time ! 
 — So tell me, in a word — or do not tell me. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 Act 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 hept hack 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 shelve 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 action, proper, 
 is in them — they are no descriptions, or amplifications 
 — but here, in a drama of this kind, all the events, (and in- 
 terest), take place in the minds 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 393 
 
 that of abrupt, spasmodic writing — they will find some 
 fault with this, of course. 
 
 How you know Chorley ! That is precisely the man, 
 that willow blowing now here now there — precisely ! I wish 
 he minded the Athenceum, its silence or eloquence, no more 
 nor less than I — but he goes on painfully plying me with 
 invitation aiter invitation, only to show me, I feel confi- 
 dent, that he has no part nor lot in the matter : I have two 
 kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Satur- 
 day. 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 ac- 
 cept 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 in- 
 formed me the other evening that the gentleman had writ- 
 ten a certain ' Song of the Bell ' . . ' singularly like Schil- 
 ler's ; considering that Mr. M. had never seen it ! ' I am told 
 he writes for the Athenceum, 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, corrobo- 
 rated my own not: -^n about — as pure willingness to hurt, 
 and confessed impotence and little clever spite, and en- 
 forced 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 wiU notice, and praise, and tell any- 
 body who cares to enquire, '/So 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 does shift the pea, and so 
 did from the beginning — as Charles Lamb's pleasant 
 sobriquet (Mr. Bilk, he would have it) testifies. Still he 
 
394 THE LETTEKS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Jan 12 
 
 behaved kindly to that poor Frances Brown — let us forget 
 him. 
 
 And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path- 
 preparer — I am with you again and out of them all — there, 
 /iere, in my arms, is mj proved palpable success! . My life, 
 my poetry, gained nothing, oh no ! ■ — but this found them, 
 and blessed them. On Tuesday I shall see you, dearest — 
 I am much better; well to-day — are you well — or ' scarcely 
 to be called an invalid'? Oh, when I have you, am by 
 you — 
 
 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 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Night. 
 [Post-mark, January 14, 1846.] 
 
 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 — I believe 
 —to go with him down stairs — yes, it certainly was better : 
 it was disagreeable enough to be very wise ! Tet I, being 
 addicted to every sort of superstition turning to melan- 
 choly, 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 after- 
 wards for the best of good reasons. Oh, I should have 
 liked to have ' fastened off ' that black thread, and taken 
 one stitch with a blue or a green one ! 
 
 You do not remember what we were talking of? what 
 you, rather, were talking of? And what / 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 — ! 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 395 
 
 think what it was, for indeed I will not write it down here 
 — it would be worse than Mr. Powell I Only the foolish- 
 ness 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 beforehand, he 
 would have thought it a foolish question. 
 
 And you! — you, who talk so finely of never, never 
 doubting ; of being such an example in the way of believ- 
 ing 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 
 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 ! 
 
 And the reason — ! and it could seem a reasonable mat- 
 ter of doubt to you whether I would go to the south for my 
 health's sake ! — And I answered quite a common ' no ' I be- 
 lieve — 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 ques- 
 tions. Now did I not tell you when I first knew you, that 
 I was leaning out of the window? True, that 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 
 consented to go to Italy ! but if you really fancy that I 
 would have struggled in the face of aU that difficulty — or 
 struggled, indeed, anywise, to compass such an object as 
 that — 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 — lean- 
 
396 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNING [Jan. 14 
 
 ing 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 wouldn't go 
 to Italy — 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. 
 
 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 that. 
 
 And observe ! I perfectly imderstand that you did not 
 think of doubting me — so to speak ! But you thought, all 
 the same, that if such a thing happened, I should be ca- 
 pable of doing so and so. 
 
 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 not 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. Warbur- 
 ton, and suppose you went to Mm 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, for 
 me? I do not propose that you should go to Italy, ob- 
 serve, 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, — that 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 pinch of tobacco being burnt in a 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 397 
 
 shovel near me. Should you mind it very much? the try- 
 ing I mean? 
 
 Wednesday. — For ' Pauline ' — when I had named it to 
 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 /, (in this virtue I tell you of) surpassed 
 them aU ! — And now, because I may, I ' must 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. 
 
 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 — that, you confess! — and 
 what if it should be the crossing of my bad star? You of 
 the ' Crown' and the 'Lyre,' to seek influences from the 
 ' chair of Cassiopeia ' ! I hope she wiU 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. Tou know, the qualifica- 
 tion, there, is, — not to he a poet. 
 
 How vexatious, yesterday ! The stars (talking of them) 
 were out of spherical tune, through the damp weather, per- 
 haps, and that scarlet sun was a sign ! First Mr. Chorley ! 
 — and last, dear Mr. Kenyon; who will 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? 
 
 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 ! — 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
398 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 14 
 
 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 dare not, be- 
 cause they are reading them here. 
 
 Let Mr. Mackay have his full proprietary in his ' Dead 
 Pan ' — which is quite a dififerent conception of the subject, 
 and executed in blank verse too. I have no claims against 
 him, I am sure ! 
 
 But for the man ! — To call him a poet ! A prince and 
 potentate of Commonplaces, such as he is ! — I have seen 
 his name in the Athenceum attached to a lyric or two . . 
 poems, correctly called fugitive, — more than usually fugi- 
 tive — but I never heard before that his hand was in the 
 prose department. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, January 14, 1846.] 
 
 Was I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr. Ken- 
 yon? I well knew and felt the price I was about to pay — 
 but the thought did 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 obliged to go — so . . to save you any least embarrass- 
 ment 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. 
 
 When I am away from you — a crowd of things press on 
 me for utterance — ' I wiU say them, not write them, ' I 
 think: — when I see you — aU to be said seems insignifi- 
 cant, irrelevant, — ' they can be written, at all events ' — I 
 think that too. So, feeling so much, I say so little ! 
 
 I have just returned from Town and write for ihe Post 
 — but you mean to write, I trust. 
 
 ITiat was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with, 
 as last time ! 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 399 
 
 How are you? — tell me, dearest; a long week is to be 
 waited now ! 
 
 Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba. 
 
 I am wholly your 
 
 E. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, January 15, 1846.] 
 
 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 is horrible — I could not but speak. If in drawing you, 
 all of you, closer to my heart, I hurt you whom I would — 
 outlive . . yes, — I cannot speak here — forgive me, Ba. 
 
 My Ba, you are to consider now for me. Tour health, 
 your strength, it is aU 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. / 
 stipulate, too, and require to say my own speech in my 
 own words or by letter — remember ! But this living with- 
 out you is too tormenting now. So begin thinking, — as 
 for Spring, as for a New Year, as for a new life. 
 
 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. 
 
 No more of this ; only, think of it for me, love I 
 
400 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Jan. 15 
 
 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! 
 
 Will you let Mr. Poe's book lie on the table on Mon- 
 day, if you please, that I may read what he does say, with 
 my own eyes? That I meant to ask, too ! 
 
 How too, too kind you are — how you care for so little 
 that affects me ! I am very much better — I went out yes- 
 terday, as you found : to-day I shall walk, beside seeing 
 Chorley. And certainly, certainly 1 would go away for a 
 week, if so I might escape being ill (and away from you) 
 a fortnight; but I am not ill — and will care, as you bid me, 
 beloved! So, you will send, and take all trouble; and all 
 about that crazy Eeview I Now, you should not ! — I will 
 consider about your goodness. I hardly know if I care to 
 read that kind of book just now. 
 
 Will you, and must you have ' Pauline ' ? If I could 
 pray you to revoke that decision! For it is altogether 
 foolish and not 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 precocious — 
 but I had rather you saw real infantine efforts (verses at 
 six years old, and drawings still earlier) than this ambigu- 
 ous, 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. 
 
 And now — here is a vexation. May I be with you (for 
 this once) next Monday, at two instead of three o'clock? 
 Forster's business with the new Paper obliges him, he 
 says, to restrict his choice of days to Mmiday next — and 
 give up my part of Monday I will never for fifty Forsters 
 — now, sweet, mind that I Monday is no common day, but 
 leads to a Saturday — and if, as I ask, I get leave to call at 
 2— and to stay till 3^— though I then lose nearly half an 
 
1S46] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 401 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Now, bless you, my precious Ba — I am your own — 
 
 — Your own R. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, January 17, 1846.] 
 
 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 go- 
 ing 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 aR into pebbles, or beans, whatever the chronicles 
 may say of precedents. 
 
 Arabel did tell Mr. Kenyon (she told me) that ' Mr. 
 Browning would soon go away '■ — in reply to an observa- 
 tion 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 ques- 
 tions and leave me under such an impression — ' mens con- 
 scia recti ' too ! ! — ■ 
 
 And Mr. Kenyon will not come until next Monday per- 
 haps. 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 unweU and make 
 Vol. I.— 26 
 
402 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 17 
 
 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 iU. 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 me, I 
 mean. 
 
 Did I say that ever . . that ' I knew you must be tired? ' 
 And it was not even so true as that the coming event threw 
 its shadow before? 
 
 Thursday night. — 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. 
 
 And now, even now, at this safe eight o'clock, I could 
 not be safe from somebody, who, in her goodnature and 
 my ilHortune, must come and sit by me — and when my 
 letter was come — ' why wouldn't I read it? What wonder- 
 ful 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. ' 
 
 No, no, three times no. Brummel got into the carriage 
 before the Eegent, . . (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 all, how- 
 ever, happily for me ! Or my friend would have seen in 
 my eyes what they did not see. 
 
 May God bless you! Did I ever say that I had an 
 objection to read the verses at six years old — or see the 
 
1846] Al^D ELIZABETH BARRETT 403 
 
 drawings either? I am reasonable, you observe! Only, 
 ' Pauline, ' I must have some day — why not without the 
 emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to 
 wait a little — if you promise at last 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 /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 ' hex- 
 ameter, ' tragedy on the subject of Eegulus — 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 side- 
 board, ' in the dining-room, concocting one of the solilo- 
 quies begiiming 
 
 Que suis je? autrefois un general Remain : 
 Maintenant esclave de Carthage je souffre en vain. 
 
 Poor Eegulus ! — 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 housemaids' 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 feU into a 
 vague sort of general scepticism, . . and though I went on 
 
404 THE LETTEES OE ROBERT BROWNING [Jan. 17 
 
 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 . . ' 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 this side, mind ! ' So I was very obedient 
 and never touched the books on that 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 Woolstoncraft . . 
 books, which I was never suspected of looking towards, 
 and which were not ' on that side ' certainly, but which did 
 as well. 
 
 How I am writing ! — And what are the questions you did 
 not answer? I shall remember them by the answers I sup- 
 pose — but your letters always have a fidness to me and I 
 never seem to wish for what is not in them. 
 
 But this is the end indeed, 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday Night. 
 [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] 
 
 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,' 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 405 
 
 it was what you supposed, rather! It was a mistake of 
 yours. And now we will not talk of it any more. 
 
 Friday morning. — For the rest, I will think as you de- 
 sire : but I have thought a great deal, and there are cer- 
 tainties which I know; and I hope we both 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 one 
 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 at- 
 tachment, as I observed to Arabel at the time — a child 
 never submitted more meekly to a revoked holiday. Tet 
 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. 
 
 I have tried to forget it all — but now I must remember 
 — and throughout our intercourse I have remembered. It 
 
406 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BROWNING [Jan. 17 
 
 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 you 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 ! 
 
 Only . . as you speak of ' counsel, ' I will take courage 
 to tell you that my sisters know. 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 under- 
 stand that if there should he any change it would not he your 
 fault . . 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 con- 
 jectures, 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 knowledge would 
 be dangerous for my brothers : with my sisters it is differ- 
 ent, and I could not continue to conceal from them 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? 
 
 Yet of what consequence is all this to the other side of 
 the question? What, if you should give pain and dis- 
 appointment where you owe such pure gratitude. But 
 we need not talk of these things now. Only you have 
 more to consider than I, I imagine, while the future 
 comes on. 
 
 Dearest, let me have my way in one thing : let me see 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKRETT 407 
 
 you on Tuesday instead of on Monday — on Tuesday at the 
 old hour. Be reasonable and consider. Tuesday is al- 
 most 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 you 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 Daily News, . . no, nor to the Ux- 
 aminer. 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 Tues- 
 day, why you can come again on the Saturday afterwards 
 — I do not see the difficulty. Are we agreed? On Tues- 
 day, 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 ! 
 
 Think of me on Monday instead, and write before. 
 Are not these two lawful letters? And do not they deserve 
 an answer? 
 
 My life was ended when I knew you, and if I survive 
 myself it is for your sake •.—that 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 
 is so, 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 not change, I look to 
 you for my first affections and my first duty — and nothing 
 but your bidding me, could make me look away. 
 
 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. 
 
 It may be wrong and ungrateful, but I do wish some- 
 
408 THE LETTERS OP ROBERT BROWNING [Jan. 17 
 
 times that the world were away — even the good Kenyon- 
 aspect of the world. 
 
 And so, once more — may God bless you ! 
 
 I am wholly yours — 
 
 Tuesday, remember ! And say that you agree. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, January 17, 1846.] 
 
 Did my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get 
 to a book on the forb — no, unforbidden sheH — wherein 
 Voltaire pleases to say that ' si Dieu n'existait pas, il fau- 
 drait I'inventer'? I feel, after reading these letters, — as 
 ordinarily after seeing you, sweetest, or hearing from you, 
 — that if marriage did not exist, I should infallibly invent it. 
 I should say, no words, no feelings even, do justice to the 
 whole conviction and religion 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 unrepresented, other minute's, 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 satis- 
 faction . . (but for the fantasticalness of the illustration) 
 . . something like the earnestness of some suitor in Chan- 
 cery 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 must 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 ' — 
 
 If I did not hnow 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. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 409 
 
 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 that does strike me, as so often it wiU, 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 that way ! ' — And I do 
 rwt, Ba — you, even, might not — when people everj'day 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 more yours, yet more like you, I 
 may and must be — Tes, indeed — best, only love ! 
 
 And am I not grateful to your sisters — entirely grateful 
 for that crowning comfort; it is ' miraculous,' too, if you 
 please — for you 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 wist- 
 ful lookers up at the gold apple — yet instead of ' rapidly 
 levelling eager eyes ' — they are indulgent? Then — shall I 
 wish capriciously they were rwt 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 — no, I will not — it is foolish ! — and it is not foolish in 
 me to love the table and chairs and vases in your room. 
 
 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 occa- 
 sion ! And so, now, for your kind considerateness thank 
 you . . ito/sa?/, which, God knows, cowM not say, if Idled 
 ten deaths in one to do you good, ' you are repaid ' — 
 
410 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 17 
 
 To-morrow I will write, and answer more. I am pretty 
 well, and wiU go out to-day — to-night. My Act is done, 
 and copied — I will bring it. Do you see tlie Athenceum ? 
 By Chorley surely — and kind and satisfactory. I did not 
 expect any notice for a long time — all tliat about tlie ' 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 an- 
 swer every purpose — 
 
 There is all to say jei — to-morrow ! 
 
 And ever, ever your own ; God bless you ! 
 
 E. 
 
 Admire the clean paper . . I did not notice that I have 
 been writing in a desk where a candle fell ! See the bot- 
 toms of the other pages ! 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, January 19, 1846.] 
 
 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 enougJi 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 hurry- 
 ing ', — I leave all with you henceforth — all you say is most 
 wise, most convincing. 
 
 On the saddest part of all, — silence. Tou understand, 
 and I can understand through you. Do you know, that I 
 never tised to dream unless indisposed, and rarely then — 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 411 
 
 (of late I dream of you, but quite of late) — and those night- 
 mare dreams have invariably been of one sort. I stand by 
 (powerless to interpose by a word even) and see the inflic- 
 tion 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 rev- 
 erences a madman — and this feUow, 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 ac- 
 complished, he, too, left us with an affectation of compen- 
 sating 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 fortu- 
 nate 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 ivas, 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 — this 
 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 arrectis aurilms, and in a 
 minute he said he did not know somebody I mentioned. 
 
412 THE LETTERS OF KOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 19 
 
 I told him, that I easily conceived — such a person would 
 never condescend to know Mm, &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, fol- 
 lowed me to the door, and only said in unfeigned wonder, 
 ' What can have possessed you, my dear 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 the case — in- 
 deed, 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. 
 Trees 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 is holy, just and 
 good ' unless there is recognised and independent concep- 
 tion of holiness and goodness, to which the subsequent 
 assertion is referable? ' Tou know what holiness is, what 
 it is to be good? Then, He is that ' — not, ' that is so — be- 
 cause he is that ' ; though, of course, when once the con- 
 verse is demonstrated, this, too, follows, and may be urged 
 for practical purposes. All God's urgency, so to speak, is 
 on the justice of his judgments, Tightness of his rule : yet 
 why? one might ask — if one does believe that the rule m 
 his ; why ask further? — Because, his is a ' reasonable 
 service,' once for all. 
 
 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 en- 
 deavour, 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. 
 
 The likelihood is, I over frighten myself for you, by the 
 involuntary contrast with those here — you allude to them — 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 413 
 
 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 ab- 
 surdities 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 yesterday 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, sa- 
 tisfying him ! ' — So judge of what he will say ! And 
 my mother loves me just as much more as must of neces- 
 sity be. 
 
 Once more, understand aU this . . for the clock scares 
 me of a sudden — I meant to say more — far more. 
 
 But may God bless you ever — my own dearest, my Ba — 
 I am wholly your E. 
 (Txiesday) 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, January 19, 1846. ] 
 
 Tour 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? 
 
 And you call the Atherweum ' kind and satisfactory ' ? 
 Well — I was angry instead. To make us wait so long for 
 an ' article ' like that, 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 
 
414 THE LETTERS OF EOBEKT BEOWNING [Jan- 19 
 
 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 are 
 misty, not even in ' Sordello ' — never vague. Tour graver 
 cuts deep sharp lines, always — and there is an extra-dis- 
 tinctness in your images and thoughts, from the midst of 
 which, crossing each other infinitely, the general signifi- 
 cance 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. 
 
 But the suggested virtue of ' self-renunciation ' only 
 made me smile, because it is simply nonsense . . non- 
 sense which proves itself to be nonsense at a glance. So 
 genius is to renounce itself — that is the new critical doc- 
 trine, 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 other- 
 wise? 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 our- 
 selves, looking back. 
 
 Now, shall I teU 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 Jan- 
 uary, 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 
 
1846] AITD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 415 
 
 went out — I never walked a step for fear of tlie cold in tlie 
 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 ' so glad to see me ' ! 
 
 WeU !— 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. 
 
 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 ' grate- 
 ful ' to my sisters . . you ! Now I beseech you not to talk 
 such extravagances ; I mean such extravagances as words 
 like these imply — 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 ! — certainly I shoidd not choose 
 to have a ' claim,' see! Only, what I object to, in ' illu- 
 sions, ' ' 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! 
 
 And ' pretty well ' means ' not well ' I am afraid — or I 
 should be gladder still of the new act. Tou 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 ! 
 
 To-morrow too, at half past three o'clock, how joyful 
 I shall be that my ' kind considerateness ' decided not to 
 
416 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 19 
 
 receive you until Tuesday. My very kind considerateness, 
 which made me eat my dinner to-day ! 
 
 Tour own 
 Ba. 
 
 A hundred letters I have, by this last, . . to set against 
 Napoleon's Hundred Days — did you know that ? 
 
 So much better I am to-night: it was nothing but a 
 little chill from the damp — the fog, you see ! 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, January 19, 1846.] 
 
 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 hnow I should not be able to 
 bear; the repetition of these ' scenes ' — intolerable — not to 
 be written of, even my mind refuses to form a clear concep- 
 tion of them. 
 
 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 do ' eat your dinner ' ? Indeed you will be inge- 
 nious to prevent me ! I fancy myself meeting you on ' the 
 stairs ' — stairs and passages generally, and galleries (ah, 
 thou indeed !) all, with their picturesque accidents, of land- 
 ing-places, and spiral heights and depths, and sudden 
 turns and visions of half open doors into what Quarles 
 calls ' moUitious chambers ' — and above all, landing-places 
 — 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 417 
 
 ' 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 cortile 
 the bronze fountains whence the girls draw water. 
 
 So you 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 Al- 
 C8BUS ; and the last eouplet ran thus . . 
 
 Harmodius, et toi, cher Arlstogiton 1 
 
 Comme I'astre du jour, brillera votre nom ! 
 
 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 
 AthencEum said [several words erased] now, what out- 
 rageous folly! I care, and you care, precisely nothing 
 about its saying and doings — yet here I talk ! 
 
 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 forty 
 is confounded with another in my memory. So, tJutt is 
 gained and sure for ever. And of letters, this makes my 
 104"' and, like Donne's Bride, 
 
 ... I take, 
 My jewels from their boxes ; call 
 My Diamonds, Pearls, and Emeralds, and make 
 Myself a constellation of them all 1 
 
 Bless you, my own Beloved ! 
 Vol. I.— 37 
 
418 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 19 
 
 I am mucli better to-day — having been not so well yes- 
 terday — 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, would account, if you 
 heard them, for my parting company with a good deal of 
 warmth of attachment to myself. 
 
 What a day ! But you do not so much care for rain, I 
 think. My Mother is no worse, but still suffering sadly. 
 Ever your own, dearest ever — 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, January 33, 1846.] 
 
 Ever since I ceased to be with you — ever dearest, — I 
 have been with your ' Luria, ' if that is ceasing to be with 
 you — which it is, I feel at last. Yet the new act is power- 
 ful 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 
 so ? can you mean it? Oh — indeed I foresaw that — 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 ao 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 un- 
 derstand the natural reaction of all that generous trust and 
 hopefulness, what naturally it would be. Also, it is satis- 
 factory that Domizia, having put her woman's part off to 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 419 
 
 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 recom- 
 pense ring hollowly to his ears, and so commend herself, 
 drawing back the veil. 
 
 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. . . tlmt 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 
 
 The angel in thee and rejects the sprites 
 That ineffectual crowd about his strength, 
 And mingle with his work and claim a share ! — 
 
 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 (did 
 you not 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. Chor- 
 ley 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 that ? 
 
 But first, I want to ask you something — I have had it 
 
420 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Jan. 23 
 
 in my head a long time, but it might aa well have been in 
 a box — and indeed if it had been in the box with your let- 
 ters, 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 im- 
 mortal ' 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. Ken- 
 yon laugh to look at — and so, my fancy has run upon your 
 having the heavier holder, which is not very heavy after 
 aU, and which wiU 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 ! — 
 
 And for 'Pauline,' . . I am satisfied with the prom- 
 
 , ise 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 do see it. ! So that 
 
 I shall be ! — Am I not good now, and not a teaser? If there 
 
 I is any poetical justice in ' the seven worlds, ' I shall have 
 
 a letter to-night. 
 
 By the way, you owe me two letters by your confes- 
 sion. A hundred and four of mine you have, and I, only 
 a hundred and two of yours . . which is a ' deficit ' scarce- 
 ly 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 j)er 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 best, to 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 421 
 
 write, as you did, for me to hear twice on one day ! — best 
 and dearest ! 
 
 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. Do you, on the other hand, endeafv- 
 our 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 re- 
 gard — 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 sees 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 succeeding 
 in obtaining what is called an ' adjutancy, ' which, with the 
 half pay, will put an end to many anxieties. 
 
 Dearest — when, in the next dream, you meet me in the 
 ' landing-place, ' tell me why I am to stand uj^ to be reviewed 
 again. What a fancy, that 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 privi- 
 lege, 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 ! 
 
 Mr. Kenyon does not come — puts it off to Saturday 
 perhaps. 
 
 The Daily Neius I have had a glance at. A weak lead- 
 
422 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 32 
 
 ing article, I thought . . and nothing stronger from Ire- 
 land : — 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. ' 
 
 May God bless you. Say how you are — and do walk, 
 and ' care ' for yourself, 
 
 and, so, for your own 
 Ba. 
 
 Have I expressed to you at all how ' Luria ' impresses 
 me more and more? Tou shall see the ' remarks ' with the 
 other papers — the details of what strikes me. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, January 33, 1846.] 
 
 But you did not 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 knew 
 what was coming, and had all my thoughts there, that is, 
 liere 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 per- 
 ceived, — whether suggested by some forgotten passage in 
 the past sleep itself, I don't know — but I seem to appre- 
 Jiend, comprehend entirely, for the first time, what would 
 happen if I lost you — the whole sense of that closed door 
 of Catarina'a came on me at once, and it was J who said 
 — not as quoting or adapting another's words, but spon- 
 taneously, unavoidably, ' In that door, you will not enter, 1 
 Jiave' . . . And, dearest, the 
 
 Unwritten it must remain. 
 
 What is on the other leaf, no ill-omen, after aU, — be- 
 cause I strengthened myself against a merely imaginary 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 423 
 
 evil — as I do always ; and thus — I know I never can lose 
 you, — you surely are more mine, there is less for the fu- 
 ture 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 — 
 
 And do you think, sweet, that there ia any free move- 
 ment of my soul which your pen-holder is to secure? Well, 
 try, — it wiU 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 en- 
 suring 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! {Embracing lier) . 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. 
 (Kissing Tier hand).' 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 that by any fresh appliance, 
 mechanical or spiritual, yet I do thank you, dearest, thank 
 you from my heart indeed — (and I write with Bramahs 
 always— iioi being able to make a pen ! ) 
 
 If you have gone so far with ' Luria, ' I fancy myself 
 nearly or altogether safe. I must not teU you, but I 
 wished just these feelings to be in your mind about Do- 
 mizia, and the death of Luria : the last act throws light 
 back on all, I hope. Observe only, that Luria would 
 stand, if I have plied him effectually with adverse influ- 
 
424 THE LETTEES OF EOBEKT BKOWNING [Jan. 33 
 
 ences, in sucli a position as to render any other end im- 
 possible 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 pre- 
 vent 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. 
 
 I am obliged to leave off — the rest to-morrow — and then 
 dear, Saturday ! I love you utterly, my own best, dearest — 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday Night. 
 [Post-mark, January 33, 1846.] 
 
 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 you on Saturday, dear- 
 est. 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 if/jaHs the way? Ah, 
 ' these lucid moments, in which all things are thoroughly 
 perceived; ' — what harm they do me ! — And I am to ' under- 
 stand for you,' you say ! — Am I? 
 
 On the other side, and to make the good omen com- 
 plete, I remembered, after I had sealed my last letter, hav- 
 ing 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 too, in the meanwhile, grow wiser, . . 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 425 
 
 having learnt something which you cannot do, — you of the 
 ' Bells and Pomegranates ' : You cannot make, a pen. Yes- 
 terday I looked roimd the world in vain for it. 
 
 Mr. Kenyon does not come — ivill not perhaps until Sat- 
 urday. ! Which reminds me — Mr. Kenyon told me about 
 a year ago that he had been painfully employed that morn- 
 ing in parting 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 Tiever could have 
 done it.' 
 
 Was not that 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 . . so! When people have lucid 
 moments themselves, you know, it is different. 
 
 And shall I indeed have a letter to-morrow? Or, not 
 having the pen holder yet, will you . . . 
 
 Goodnight. May God bless you — 
 
 Ever and wholly your 
 
 Ba. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, January 23, 1846.] 
 
 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 gen- 
 eral meaning, if she can, — which I very well know their im- 
 perfect 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 pen-holders 
 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 
 
426 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BROWNING [Jan. 23 
 
 with the deprivation of his Virgil learnt the ^neid by 
 heart and then said ' Take what you can now ' ! — that Ba 
 calls ' feeling the loss would not be so hard after all ' ! — 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 my 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 un- 
 certainty of life — the very existence of God, I may say — if 
 they were not 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 created 
 on that day — do you ' understand ' that, Ba? And when 
 I am with you, or here or writing or walking — and per- 
 fectly 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 once, as I told you, 
 recording it for its very strangeness, I do feel — in a flash — 
 that words are words, and could not alter tJiat decree . . 
 will you tell me how, after all, that conviction and the true 
 woe of it are better met than by the as thorough convic- 
 tion that, for one blessing, the extreme woe is impossible 
 now — that you are, and have been, mine, and me — 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 aU 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 427 
 
 whole' — and only love you for myself (it is absurd; but 
 if I could disentwine you from my soul in that sense) , only 
 see my own will, and good (not in your will and good, as I 
 now see them and shall ever see) . . . should you say I 
 did love you then? Perhaps. And it would have been 
 better for me, I know— I should not have written this or 
 the like — there being no post in the Siren's isle, as you 
 will see. 
 
 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 Bhetoric, and the additional 
 chapter on the proper conduct of a letter ' ! On the con- 
 trary I tell you, Ba, my own heart's dearest, I will pro- 
 voke you tenfold worse ; will tell you all that comes upper- 
 most, 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 wor- 
 ship of my heart and soul — to its proper use, and all wiU 
 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 pen- 
 holder that is to belong to me, I hope — but with the feath- 
 er, 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 end- 
 ing 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 stand — 
 
428 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 23 
 
 . . Now, there breaks down my new spirit-^and, shame 
 or no, I must pray you, in the old way, not to receive me 
 staTiding — I should not remain master of myself I do be- 
 lieve ! 
 
 Tou 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 News- 
 paper ! No — nothing of that for the present. To-morrow 
 my dearest! Ba's first comment — 'To-morrow? To-day 
 is too soon, it seems — yet it is wise, perhaps, to avoid the 
 satiety &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.' 
 
 Does she feel how I kissed that comment back on her 
 dear self as fit punishment? 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, January 26, 1846.] 
 
 I must begin by invoking my own stupidity ! To for- 
 get after all the pen-holder ! 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 ' Play- 
 fellow ' stories twice as well. Do you know tliem ? Writ- 
 ten 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 com- 
 mitted 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 429 
 
 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 ' Baven ' made me 
 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 four different quarters be- 
 sides 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 au- 
 thor, 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 ' going out ' of the hectic, 
 struck me very much . . and the writhing away 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. 
 
 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 that before, myself, and was I not reproved for speaking 
 of it, when I said that I was content, for my part, even so ? 
 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 ' enough ' . . 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 — 
 
430 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 36 
 
 Now see if it is possible to write on this subject, unless 
 one laughs to stop the tears. I was more wise on Friday. 
 
 Let me tell you instead of my sister's affairs, which are 
 so publicly talked of in this house that there is no confi- 
 dence 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 Henri- 
 etta 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 inter- 
 pretations, 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 should — 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 ' . . 
 did 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 hysteri- 
 cal 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 431 
 
 ' taken by storm and cannot help it. ' I give you only the 
 risumi 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 so. He is sincerely attached to her, I be- 
 lieve ; 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. 
 
 That's love — is it not? And that's my answer (if you 
 look for it) to the question you asked me yesterday. 
 
 Tet 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 you — 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. 
 
 What do you think he has said since — to her 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 finished it. ' Perfectly unconscious, both 
 he and she were of there being anything mal a propos in 
 tJmt — and no kind of harm was meant, — only it expresses 
 the man. 
 
 Dearest — it had better be Thursday I think — our 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. 
 
432 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. S8 
 
 dearest . . think of me enough for it, — and do not hurry 
 ' Luria. ' May God bless you ! 
 
 Tour own 
 
 Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, January 26, 1846.] 
 
 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 pen-holder 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 too 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 occuirred to visits or letters — oh, 
 care you, sweet — care for us both ! 
 
 That remark of your sister's delights me — you remem- 
 ber? — that the anger would not be so formidable. I have 
 exactly the fear of encountering that, which the sense of 
 having to deal with a ghost would induce : there's no strik- 
 ing 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 sure I should do all I ever noiv can do, if jou 
 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 anger, which is 
 of no good, but that opposition — that adverse will — to show 
 that your good would be attained by the — 
 
1846] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAERETT 433 
 
 But it would need to be shoion to me. Tou have said 
 thus to me — in the very last letter, indeed. But with me, 
 or any mcMi, the instincts of happiness develop themselves 
 too unmistakably where there is anything like a freedom 
 of wiU, The man whose heart is set on being rich or in- 
 fluential 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. 
 
 I believe — first of aU, you — but when that is done, and 
 I am allowed to call your heart mme, I cannot think you 
 would be happy if parted from me — and that belief, com- 
 ing to add to my own feeling in tJiat case. So, this will 
 be — I trust in God. 
 
 In life, in death, I am your own, my 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 diffi- 
 culty only begin : — and now . . see where is reached ! And 
 I kiss you, and bless you, my dearest, in earnest of the end ! 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, January 27, 1846.] 
 
 Ton have had my letter and heard about the penhold- 
 er. Tour fancy of ' not seeming grateful enough, ' is not 
 wise enough for you, dearest; when you know that /know 
 your common fault to be the undue magnifying of every- 
 thing that comes from me, and I am always complaining 
 of it outwardly and inwardly. That suddenly I should set 
 Vol. I.— 38 
 
434 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 27 
 
 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. 
 
 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 for- 
 midable 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 re- 
 ferred to, was simply the infrequency of the visits. ' Why 
 was I afraid, ' she said — ' where was the danger? who 
 would be the informer? ' — Well! I wiU not say any more. 
 It is just natural that you, in your circumstances and asso- 
 ciations, 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 
 tlmt too . . in the ' lucid moments ' which are not the 
 happiest for anybody. Eemember, 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. ' 
 
 For 7wm . . 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. 
 
 Do you ever wonder at me . . that I should write such 
 things, and have written others so different? Iliave thought 
 that in myself very often. 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 J I could not. Yet now again I am borne on to 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 435 
 
 tell you, . . to save you from some thoughts which you 
 cannot help perhaps. 
 
 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 qual- 
 ities, 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 hnow . . 
 though tliat 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, ' If it Jiad iwt been for you ' . . ! 
 And comparing my self-reproach to what I imagined his 
 self-reproach must certainly be (for if J had loved selfish- 
 ly, Jie had not been kind) , I felt as if I could love and for- 
 give him for two . . (I knowing that serene generous de- 
 parted spirit, and seeming left to represent it) . . and I 
 did love him better than all those left to me 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 dimin- 
 
436 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BROWNING [Jan. 27 
 
 ish 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 
 me to feel sure at last that lie loved me — to forget aU 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 you be- 
 lieve 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 iso- 
 lates 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 that be the 
 last word. 
 
 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 that is one 
 of the things impossible to me. I have not influence enough 
 for that. George can never invite a friend of his even. Do 
 you see? The people who do come here, come by partic- 
 ular 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. It was in vain. Now, you see — 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 437 
 
 May God bless you always! I wrote all my spirits 
 away in this letter yesterday, and kept it to finisli to-day 
 . . being yours every day, glad or sad, ever beloved ! — 
 
 Tour Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, January 27, 1846.] 
 
 ^hj 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 think, 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 thick- 
 ness . . and ^Ae?i there's a fear at first lest the over-running 
 of my dealt-out measure should be just a note of Mr. Ken- 
 yon'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? 
 
 Quondam fessus Amor loquens Amato, 
 Tot et tanta loquens arnica, scripsit : 
 Tandem et fessa manus dedit Slgillum. 
 
 And in his own English, 
 
 When love, being weary, made an end 
 Of kind expressions to iiis friend, 
 He writ ; when hand could write no more, 
 He gave the seal— and so left o'er. 
 
438 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Jan. 27 
 
 (By the way, what a mercy that he never noticed the 
 jingle in posse of ending ' expressions ' and beginning * im- 
 pressions.') 
 
 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 difficul- 
 ties; and the sobbing proves something surely! Serjt. 
 TaKourd 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. 
 
 Understand that I do not 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 testi- 
 mony as Miss Martineau's if it had been adduced in sup- 
 port of something I firmly believed — ' non tali 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. 
 
 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! 
 
 Thursday, and again I am with you — and you will for- 
 get nothing . . how the farewell is to be returned? Ah, 
 my dearest, sweetest Ba; how entirely I love you! 
 
 May God bless you ever — 
 B. 
 
 2. p.m. Tour parcel arrives . . the pen-holder; 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 439 
 
 meantime keep it where my other treasures are — my letters 
 and my dear ringlet. 
 
 Thank you — all I can thank. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 "Wednesday. 
 [Post-mark, January 28, 1846.] 
 
 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 en- 
 gagement; not your 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 claim anything, it is really yourself in me — you 
 give me a right and bid me use it, and I, in fact, am most 
 obeying you when I appear most exacting on my own ac- 
 count — so, in that feeling, I dare claim, once for all, and 
 in all possible cases (except that dreadful one of your be- 
 coming 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 ordained, granted by 
 God, win you not, dearest? — so, not to be put in doubt 
 ever again — then, we can go quietly thinking of after mat- 
 ters. TiU 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 yoiirs. 
 
440 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [Jan. 28 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, January 31, 1846.] 
 
 Let it be this way, ever dearest. If in the time of fine 
 weather, I am not ill, . . then . . not noiu . . you shall 
 decide, and your decision shall be duty and desire to me, 
 both — I will make no difficulties. Eemember, in the mean- 
 while, that I have decided to let it be as you shall choose 
 . . shall 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 too much 
 of me in the last letter. Do not mistake me. I believe and 
 trust in aU your words — only you are generous unawares, 
 as other men are selfish. 
 
 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 chances of your being 
 happy with me. Well ! I am yours as you see . . and 
 not yours to teaze you. Tou 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, /. 
 
 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 ' sci- 
 rocco 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 441 
 
 you reasonably praise— which, if it had been necessary to 
 modify, we must liave parted, . . because I could not have 
 borne to see you do it; though, that you once offered it 
 for m.j sake, I never shall forget. 
 
 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 Athenaeum) 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. 
 
 But the reaUy 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 run into danger — so 
 the account went. 
 
 And you? how are you? Mind to tell me. May God 
 bless you. Is Monday or Tuesday to be our 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? 
 
 Tour own 
 Ba, 
 
 Shall I have a letter? 
 
442 THE LETTERS OP ROBEET BROWNING [Jan. 31 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, January 31, 1846.] 
 
 It is a relief to me this time to obey your wish, and 
 reserve further remark on tliat subject till by and bye. 
 And, whereas some people, I suppose, have to lash them- 
 selves up to the due point of passion, and choose the happy 
 minutes to be as loving in as they possibly can . . (that 
 is, in expression; the just correspondency of word to fact 
 and feeling ; for ti— the love — may be very truly there, 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, love means 
 hve, certainly, and adoration carries its sense with it — and 
 so, 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 stand- 
 ing as far off you as I shall be able, see more — ' si minus 
 prop^ stes, te capiet magis.' Meanwhile, silent or speak- 
 ing, I am yours to dispose of as that ghve — not that hand. 
 
 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 did tell the truth 
 in a very few words. Well, it is no matter. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 443 
 
 I am sorry to hear of poor Tennyson's condition. The 
 projected book — title, scheme, all of it, — that is astound- 
 ing; — and fairies? If 'Thorpes and barnes, sheep-pens 
 and dairies — this maketh that there ben no fairies ' — loco- 
 motives 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 ive 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 
 ' Eomeo 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 some- 
 thing actually insisted upon and drawn boldly . . here, you 
 have it gone over with an unremitting burnt-stick, till it 
 stares black forever ! Komeo goes whining about Verona 
 by broad daylight. Yet when a schoolfellow of mine, I 
 remember, began translating in class Virgil after this mode, 
 'Sicfatur — sosaid^neas; lachrymans — decrying' . . our 
 pedagogue turned on him furiously — ' D'ye think ^neas 
 made such a noise — as you shall, presently? ' How easy to 
 conceive a boyish half-melancholy, smiling at itself. 
 
 Then Tuesday, and not Monday . . and Saturday will 
 be the nearer afterward. I am singularly weU 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 j May God bless you ever — 
 
 E. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, February 3, 1846.] 
 
 Something, you said yesterday, made me happy — ' that 
 your liking for me did not come and go ' — do you remem- 
 ber? Because there was a letter, written at a crisis long 
 since, in which you showed yourself awfully, as a burning 
 
444 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING- [Feb. 3 
 
 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 idiosyncrasy seemed long enough 
 to cover it; and it might have been a matter of tempera- 
 ment, 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 . . where 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 burn- 
 ing 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 ' real mammoth,' this time ! 
 
 Dearest, did I write you a cold letter the last time? 
 Almost it seems so to me ! the reason being that my feel- 
 ings were near to overflow, and that I had to hold the cup 
 straight to prevent the possible dropping on your purple 
 underneath. Your letter, the letter I answered, was in my 
 
 heart . . is 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 dis- 
 tinction—and it comes to the same thing practically with- 
 out 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 445 
 
 should, would, must, depend on your deliberate wishes 
 hereafter. You undejstand — you wiU 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 scarce- 
 ly tell. If you could be too dear to me you would be now — 
 but you could not — I do not believe in those supposed ex- 
 cesses of pure affections — God cannot be too great. 
 
 Therefore it is a conditional engagement stiU — 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 ever ' ? — your goodness, tJmt 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 do not — there seems 
 no necessity yet. 
 
 May God bless you, ever dearest : — 
 
 Your own Ba. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] 
 
 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, so far it is 
 not for an answer. Only I deny the ' flying out ' — per- 
 haps you may do it a little more . . in your moments of 
 starry centrifugal motion. 
 
 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 
 
446 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb. 3 
 
 Bed Dragon, put so . . and your burning mountain is not 
 too awful for the scenery. 
 
 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 sar- 
 casm 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 /whom you look at . . and pcmr 
 cause. ' Flying out, ' that would be ! 
 
 And for Mr. Kenyon, I only know that I have grown 
 the most ungrateful of human beings lately, and find my- 
 self almost glad when he does not come, certainly uncom- 
 fortable when he does — yes, really 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 let- 
 ters 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 stu- 
 pidities . . 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 
 tJiem . . cannot help it — and you need not say it is wrong, 
 because I know the whole iniquity of it, persisting never- 
 theless. As for dear Mr. Kenyon — with whom we began, 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 447 
 
 and who thinka of you as appreciatingly and admiringly as 
 one man can think of another, — do not imagine that, if he 
 should see anything, he can ' approve ' of either your wis- 
 dom or my generosity, . . he, 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 hefore . . why there, is a conclusion ! — but if after- 
 ivard . . 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. 
 Tou 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 that if it seemed probable . . 
 I should recoil from your affection even under a shape so 
 fatal to you . . dearest! No! There is a better proba- 
 bility before us I hope and believe — in spite of the possi- 
 bility which it is impossible to deny. And now we leave 
 this subject for the present. 
 
 Sunday. — Tou are ' singularly weU. ' Tou 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 
 after so much writing. Tet do not hurry that last act . . 
 I won't have it for a long while yet. 
 
 Here I have been reading Carlyle upon Cromwell and 
 he is very fine, very much himself, it seems to me, every- 
 where. Did Mr. Kenyon make you understand that I had 
 said there was nothing in him but manner . . 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 mamierism, the obvious fact, that an individual- 
 ity, carried into the medium, the expression, is a feature 
 in all men of genius, as Buffon teaches . . ' Le style, c'est 
 I'homme. ' But if the ivJiole man were style, if all Carlyle- 
 ism were manner — why there would be no man, no Carlyle 
 worth talking of. I wonder that Mr. Kenyon should mis- 
 
448 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BROWNING [Feb. 4 
 
 represent 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 that is a bad comparison, 
 seeing that what is called Carlyle's mannerism, is not his 
 dress, but his physiognomy or more than tliat even. 
 
 But I do not forgive him for talking here against the 
 * ideals of poets ' . . opposing their ideal by a mis-called 
 reality, 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 that — 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 Crom- 
 well's!— 
 
 But I shall write no more. Once more, may God bless 
 you. 
 
 Wholly and only 
 
 Tour Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 4, 1846.] 
 
 You ought hardly, — ought you, my Ba? — to refer to 
 that letter or any expression in it; I had — and have, I trust 
 — your forgiveness for what I wrote, meaning to be gener- 
 ous or at least just, God knows. That, and the other like 
 exaggerations were there to serve the purpose of what you 
 properly call a a'isis. I did believe, — taking an expres- 
 sion, 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 blot- 
 ted out — not merely softened down — the past avowal. All 
 was wrong, foolish, but from a good notion, I dare to say. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 449 
 
 And then, that particular exaggeration you bring most 
 painfully to my mind — tluxt does not, after all, disagree 
 with what I said and you repeat — does it, if you will 
 think? I said my other ' likings ' (as you rightly set it 
 down) vLsed to 'come and go,' and that my love for you 
 did not, 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. 1 seem to have foretold, foreknown you 
 in other likings of mine — now here . . when the liking 
 ' came, ' . . and now elsewhere . . when as surely the 
 liking ' ivent ' : and if they had stayed before the time 
 would that have been a comfort to refer to? On the con- 
 trary, I am as little likely to be led by delusions as can 
 be, — for Komeo thinJcs 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 did 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 
 
 — it is so baseless a fear that no illustration will serve ! 
 Is it gone now, dearest, ever-dearest? 
 
 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 me — like Charles Lamb's 
 ' letter to an elderly man whose education had been neg- 
 lected ' — when he finds himself involuntarily communicat- 
 ing 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 is round ! ' — so I 
 will make you laugh at me, if you will, for my 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 
 Vol. I.— 29 
 
450 THE LETTEES OP EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb- 4 
 
 only bend to the most absolute necessity in taking more or 
 less of it — so tliat increase of tlie quantity must mean sim- 
 ply increased weakness, iUness — and diminution, dimin- 
 ished illness. And now there is 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 me : now, — fancy me shut in a room 
 for seven years . . it is — no, dcm't see, even in fancy, 
 what is left of me then! But you, at the end; this is all 
 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 do love you more 
 at every breath I draw; indeed, yes dearest,) — I will not 
 bid you — that is, pray you — to persevere ! You have all 
 my life bound to yours — save me from my ' seven years ' — 
 and God reward you ! 
 
 Tour own E. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 5, 1846.] 
 
 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 (hat 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 convic- 
 tion of your having put into it as much of the truth, your 
 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? 
 
1846] AJ^D ELIZABETH BAREETT 451 
 
 Did I require you to write a letter like this? Now think 
 for a moment, and know once for all, how from the be- 
 ginning 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 me, 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. 
 
 Why should any remembrance be painful to you ? 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. 
 
 And for that letter . . do you fancy that in my mem- 
 ory the sting is not gone from it? — and that I do not carry 
 the thought of it, as the Boman 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 you — until you grow angry with 
 me instead — just tiU then. 
 
 And that you should care so much about the opium ! 
 Then /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 
 
452 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb. 5 
 
 of giving movement to the body, were imprisoned undi- 
 minislied 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 mor- 
 phine, 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 increased upon the prescribed 
 quantity . . prescribed in the first instance — ^no! Now 
 think of my writing all this to you ! — 
 
 And after all the lotus-eaters are blessed beyond the 
 opium-eaters ; and the best of lotuses are such thoughts as 
 I know. 
 
 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 . . you : — 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 ! 
 
 Tour head ... is it . . how is it? tell me. And con- 
 sider again if it could be possible that I could ever desire 
 to reproach you . . in what I said about the letter. 
 
 May God bless you, best and dearest. If you are the 
 compensation blessed is the evil that fell upon me : and iliat, 
 I can say before God. 
 
 Your Ba. 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, February 6, 1846.] 
 
 If I said you ' gave me pain ' in anything, it was in the 
 only way ever possible for you, my dearest — by giving 
 yourself, in me, pain — ^being unjust to your own right and 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 453 
 
 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 ex- 
 pression. 
 
 All the kind explaining about the opium makes me 
 happier. ' Slowly and gradually ' what may not be done? 
 Then see the bright weather while I write — lilacs, haw- 
 thorn, plum-trees all in bud; elders in leaf, rose-bushes 
 with great red shoots ; thrushes, whitethroats, hedge spar- 
 rows 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 — 
 
 And Miss Mitford yesterday — and has she fresh fears 
 for you of my evil influence and Origenio power of ' ray- 
 ing out darkness ' like a swart star? Why, the common 
 sense of the world teaches that there is nothing people at 
 faidt 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 neighbour's 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 Mm; he will certainly 
 not encourage him to stop his ears. And so with the con- 
 verse ; a writer who fails- to- make-himself understood, as 
 presumably in- my case, -may-either believe in hisheatt' 
 that iiiajipi so . . that only as much attention and pre- 
 vious instructedness as the case calls for, would quite avail 
 to understand him; or he may oj)enJii3 eyes to the fact 
 and be trying^lijJifc^to.jDvercome'it : but on which supposi- 
 tion is-^e'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 
 
.454 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Feb. 6 
 
 I anotlier mote — then one might sympathize and feel no such 
 f inconvenience — but, because I have written a ' Sordello, ' 
 \ do I turn to just its double, Sordello the second, in your 
 \^ooks, and so perforce see nothing wrong? ' No ' — it is 
 strpposed — ' but something as 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 obscur- 
 ity at all — ' bricks and mortar. ' Of course an artist's 
 whole problem must be, as Carlyle wrote to me, ' the ex- 
 l pressing with articulate clearness the thought in him ' — I 
 am almost inclined to say that cZear eiK^ressTcmSiould 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 can be clearly spoken, ought to 
 be. But ' bricks and mortar ' is very easily said — and 
 1 1 some of the thoughts in ' Sordello ' not so readily even if 
 Miss Mitford were to try her hand on them. 
 
 I look forward to a real life's work for us both. I 
 shall do all, — under your eyes and with your hand in 
 mine, — all I was intended to do: may but you as surely go 
 perfecting — by continuing — the work begun so wonderfully 
 — ' a rose-tree that beareth seven-times seven ' — 
 
 I am forced to. dine in town to-day with an old friend — 
 ' to-morrow ' always begins half the day before, like a Jew- 
 ish sabbath. Did your sister tell you that I met her on 
 the stairs last time? She did not 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. 
 
 Your own 
 
 E. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 465 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] 
 
 Dearest, to my sorrow I must, I fear, give up the de- 
 liglit of seeing you this morning. I went out unwell yes- 
 terday, 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 Mon- 
 day — unless I am told otherwise by the early post — And 
 God bless you ever 
 
 Your own — 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Saturday. 
 [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] 
 
 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 tvas it 
 right to go out yesterday when you were unwell, and to a 
 great dinner? — but I shall not reproach you, dearest, dear- 
 est — 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 
 ifs . . and among them the greatest if of all, . . for if you 
 do love me . . care for me even, you will not do yourself 
 harm or run any risk of harm by going out anywliere too soon. 
 On Monday, in case you are considered ivell enough, and 
 otherwise Tuesday, Wednesday — I leave it to you. Still 
 I luill ask one thing, whether you come on Monday or not. 
 Let 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 
 
456 THE LETTEES OF ROBERT BROWNING [Feb. 7 
 
 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 you, 
 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 I It is a fast day in- 
 stead, . . 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 Satur- 
 day 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 you are enough (and all, besides) for 
 
 Your own 
 
 R. B. to K B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.] 
 
 The clock strikes — three; and I am here, not with you 
 — and my ' fractious ' headache at the very worst got sud- 
 denly 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 won- 
 
18461 AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 457 
 
 dering— and it would be so easy now to dresa myself and 
 walk or run or ride — do anything tliat 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 — 
 
 Monday is to make all the amends in its power, is it 
 not? Still, still I have lost my day. 
 
 Bless you, my ever-dearest. 
 
 Tour E. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 9, 1846.] 
 
 My dearest — there are no words, — nor will be to-mor- 
 row, nor even in the Island — ^I know that ! But I do love 
 you. 
 
 My arms have been round you for many minutes since 
 the last word — 
 
 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 feverish- 
 ness 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 
 it 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? ' Care ' you, pray, pray, care for all I care about — 
 and be well, if God shall please, and bless me as no man 
 
458 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Feb. 9 
 
 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, — 31y lotos-blossom! be- 
 cause they hveA the lotos, were lotos-lovers, — kunoh r 
 ipu)Te<s, as Euripides writes in the Tpwdd^i 
 
 Tour own E. 
 
 P.S. See those lines in the Athenceum on Pulci with 
 Hunt's translation — all wrong — 'che non si sente,' being — 
 ' that one does not hear him ' i.e. the ordinarily noisy fel- 
 low — and the rest, male, pessime ! Sic verte, meo periculo, 
 mi ocelle ! 
 
 Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see? 
 He just now yonder in the copse has 'gone it ' (ra'andft) 
 Because across his mind there came a fancy ; 
 He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet 1 
 
 Now Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then 
 read this 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 mathe- 
 matical studies and wanting to burn him — he helped to 
 build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still ex- 
 tant, 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 milk; 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. 
 
 Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso 
 Eilevo, che presto sar6 sotterra — 
 PerchS del mio saper si fa gran chiasso, 
 E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra. 
 
 Affecting, is it not, in its simple, child like plaining? 
 Now so, if I remember, I turned it — word for word — 
 
1846] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAERETT 459 
 
 Studying my ciphers, with the compass 
 I reckon — who soon shall be below ground, 
 Because of my lore they make great 'rumpus,* 
 And against me war makes each dull rogue round. 
 
 Say that you forgive me to-morrow ! 
 
 [The following is in E. B. B.'s handwriting.] 
 
 With my compass I take up my ciphers, poor scholar ; 
 Who myself shall be taken down soon under the ground • . 
 Since the world at my learning roars out in its choler, 
 And the blockheads have fought me all round. 
 
 E. B. B. toB. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, February 10, 1846.] 
 
 Ever dearest, I have been possessed by your ' Luria ' 
 just as you would have me, and I should like you to under- 
 stand, 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, tliat too is 
 worthily done — although I agree with you, that a little 
 quickening and drawing in closer here and there, especially 
 toward the close where there ia no time to lose, the reader 
 feels, would make the effect stronger — but you will look 
 to it yourself — and such a conception must come in thunder 
 and lightning, as a chief god would — must make its own 
 way . . and will not let its poet go until he speaks it out 
 to the ultimate syllable. Domizia disappoints me rather. 
 Tou might throw a flash more of light on her face — might 
 you not? But what am I talking? I think it a magnifi- 
 cent work — a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men 
 against their ' heroes, ' and (what is peculiar) an humane 
 exposition . . not misanthropical, after the usual fashion 
 of such things : for the return, the remorse, saves it — and 
 
460 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 10 
 
 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 . . 
 ' Tlmt is done. ' And now — surely you think well of the 
 work as a whole? Tou cannot doubt, I fancy, of the gran- 
 deur of it — and of the swbtilty 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? 
 
 'A people is but the attempt of many 
 To rise to the completer life of one. ' 
 
 There is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine Tie 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 ! 
 
 So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, 
 and read through . . 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 over- 
 wear of mind and heart (for the feelings come as much intq 
 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. 
 
 To-day — how are you? It loas 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, that was ! 
 Oh it icas right and just that I should not tease 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 461 
 
 how you are — unreasonable ! — Well ! you will write now — 
 you will answer what I am writing, and mention yourself 
 particularly and sincerely — Eemember! Above all, you 
 will care for your head. I have been thinking since yes- 
 terday 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— /or or against? 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. 
 
 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 delightul letter, as letters go, 
 which are not yours ! You shall take it with you on Satur- 
 day to read, and you shall see that it is worth reading, and 
 interesting for Wordsworth's sake and her own. Mr. Ken- 
 yon 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. 
 
 Oh — poor Mr. Home! 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 aris- 
 tocrats — lords of soil — and all talking learnedly of point- 
 ers' 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 ap- 
 proaching to a ' summerset ' on satin sofas. That he 
 
462 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 10 
 
 giggles. That he only thinks he can talk. That hia igno- 
 rance on all subjects is astounding. That he never read the 
 old ballads, nor saw Percy's collection. That he asked 
 ivho 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 that. ' That, in writing his work on Na- 
 poleon, 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 ' which 
 side. ' That he is always talking of ' my shares, ' ' my in- 
 come,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and under- 
 stand, this is my ' 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 her- 
 self) 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 E or S — with hounds, perhaps. 
 
 Too, too bad — isn't it? I would repeat none of it ex- 
 cept 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 fact. And 
 
1846] AlTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 463 
 
 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 confes- 
 sions, or convictions, as they might be. And just think 
 of Mr. Home 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 neighbour- 
 hood where all were strangers to him, — and never outstay- 
 ing his week ! He must have been foolish, read it all how 
 we may. 
 
 And so am /, 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 Wordswoi-th's teakettle outsings 
 it all. 
 
 When your Monday letter came, I was reading the criti- 
 cism on Hunt and his Italian poets, in the Examiner. 
 How I liked to be pulled by the sleeve to your transla- 
 tions! — How I liked everything! — Pulci, Pietro . . and 
 you, best! 
 
 Yet here's a naivete which I found in your letter ! I 
 will write it out that you may read it — 
 
 ' However ' (the headache) ' was no sooner gone in a de- 
 gree, than a worse plague came — I sate thinking of you.' 
 
 Very satisfactory tlmt is, and very clear. 
 
 May God bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of 
 yourself. The cold makes me languid, as heat is apt to 
 make everybody ; but I am not unwell, and keep up the fire 
 and the thoughts of you. 
 
 Tour worst . . worst plague 
 
 Tour own 
 
 Ba. 
 
 I shall hear? yes! And admire my obedience in hav- 
 ing written ' a long letter ' to the letter ! 
 
464 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 11 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 11, 1846.] 
 
 My sweetest ' plague,' dM, I really write tliat 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 yours, which became as I say, in the knowledge 
 of it, a plague when brought before me witli the thought of 
 you, — if I passed this slightly over it was for pure unaf- 
 fected shame that I should take up the care and stop the 
 ' reverie serene ' of — ah, the rhyme lets me say — ' sweetest 
 eyes were ever seen ' — were ever seen ! And yourself con- 
 fess, in the Saturday's note, to having been ' unhappy for 
 half an hour till ' &c. &c. — and do not I feel iliat here, and 
 am not I plagued by it? 
 
 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 reas- 
 surance — you asked me once if I were superstitious, I re- 
 member (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 for- 
 tune; I said ' what will be the event of my love for Her ' — 
 in so many words — and my book turned out to be — ' Ce- 
 rutti's Italian Grammar ! ' — a propitious source of informa- 
 tion . . the best to be hoped, what could it prove but some 
 assurance that you were in the Dative Case, or I, not in 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 465 
 
 the ablative absolute? I do protest that, with the know- 
 ledge 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? This 
 — which I copy from the book now — ' If we love in tlie other 
 luvrld as loe do in this, I shall love thee to eternity — from 
 ' Promiscuous Exercises, ' to be translated into Italian, at 
 the end. 
 
 And now I reach Home and his characteristics — of 
 which I can tell you with confidence that they are grossly 
 misrepresented where not altogether false — whether it pro- 
 ceed from inability to see what one may see, or disinclina- 
 tion, I cannot say. I know very little of Home, but my 
 one visit to him a few weeks ago would show the imcan- 
 didness of those charges : for instance, he talked a good 
 deal about horses, meaning to ride in Ireland, and de- 
 scribed 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 Home'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 false, he 
 praises more unregardingly of his own retreat, more unpro- 
 vidingly 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 profes- 
 VOL. I.— 30 
 
466 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [Feb. 11 
 
 sional praise of the ' craft ' than any other I ever met — in- 
 stance after instance starting into my mind aa 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 some- 
 body'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. Al- 
 together, what miserable ' set-o£fs to the achievement of an 
 'Orion,' a 'Marlowe,' a 'Delora'! Miss Martineau un- 
 derstands him better. 
 
 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 
 ' cenomel ' and before half past six. I know all about that 
 song and its Greek original if Home does not — and can 
 tell you — , how truly. . ! 
 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine — 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup 
 
 I would not change for thine ! No, no, no ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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.' ' she loves ' — to which I 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 467 
 
 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 wiU try and remember 
 what my whole character did 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 necjmU-pmdfieradomari! ■ ^ ---...,..,, ' v,_ 
 
 I'or'the 'Soul's Tragedy' — that will surprise you,-! 
 
 think. There is no trace of you there, — you have not put' 
 
 , out the black face of it — it is all sneering and 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/ 
 
 -•"ihe-t wQ part «Lnexb.Eaituida^.„ ^ _^ '' 
 
 And now, dearest, I am with you— ^aiid the' Other mat- 
 ters are forgotten already. God bless you, I am ever your 
 own B. You will write to me I trust? And teU me how 
 to bear the cold. 
 
 U. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 12, 1846.] 
 
 Ah, the ' sortes ' ! Is it a double oracle — ' swan and 
 shadow ' — do you think? or do my eyes see double, daz- 
 zled by the light of it? ' I shall love thee to eternity ' — I 
 shall. 
 
 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 might, you know — not that I pretend to ad- 
 vise. 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 near- 
 est to a stimulant that I dare to take, as far as ordinary 
 
468 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 12 
 
 diet goes, will almost always deliver me 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 think- 
 ing. The more I read and read your ' Luria, ' the grander 
 it looks, and it will make its own road with all understand- 
 ing 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 aU the rest of it. I wish never to do you 
 greater harm than just tlmt, and then with a white con- 
 science ' I shall love thee to eternity ! ' . . dearest ! Tou 
 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 — sTiould, if you were precisely nothing 
 to me. And still, the fifth act rises ! 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 ih.e panther, — 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 man- 
 uscript before, you should not have a page of it — now, 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 thoa^ts-ycfa'lilwa^s'Tiiust 
 have, in and, out of * Sordello ' — and the objectors would 
 find ev6n Plato (though his medium is as lucid as the water 
 that ran beside the beautiful plane-tree !) a little difficult 
 perhaps. 
 
 °"TS^day Mr. Kenyon came, and do you know, he has 
 made a beatific confusion between last Saturday and next 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEKETT 469 
 
 Saturday, and said to me be had told Miss Thomson to 
 mind to come on Friday if she wished to see me . . ' re- 
 membering ' (he added) ' that Mr. Browning took Satur- 
 day ! !' 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 hap- 
 pened so — there must be a cause — and if it is a very, very, 
 bad cause, why no one wiU tell me . . it will not seem my 
 concern '■ — that 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 noth- 
 ing. I shall remember for the future that you may have 
 the headache — and do you remember it too ! 
 
 For Mr. Home I take your testimony gladly and believ- 
 ingly. 87ie Mots with her eyes 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 dyspathy on the other — using the mild- 
 est of words. You see, he found himself, down in Berk- 
 shire, 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 class- 
 ing 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 
 
470 THE LETTERS OE ROBERT BROWNING [Feb. 12 
 
 twenty times worse. Writing in albums about tlie 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 genus 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 — she should. And 
 she would 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 — 
 
 May God bless you! — I end in haste after this long 
 lingering. 
 
 Tour 
 Ba. 
 
 Not unwell — Jam not! I forgot it, which proves how 
 I am not. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 13, 1846.] 
 
 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 post- 
 pone 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 
 grex that stands aloof from the purer plebs, and uses that 
 privilege to display and parade an ignorance which the 
 other is altogether unconscious of — so that, if ' Luria ' is 
 clearish, the ' Tragedy ' would be an unnecessary troubling 
 the waters. Whereas, if I printed it first in order, my 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 471 
 
 readers, according to custom, would make the (compara- 
 tively) 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, first effect of the 
 whole — its moral effect — which is dependent on the con- 
 trary 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 in- 
 serted? — in its place, too, for it was written two or three 
 years ago. I have lost, of late, interest in dramatic writ- 
 ing, as you know, and, perhaps, occasion. And, dearest, I 
 mean to take your advice and be quiet awhile andl^jt my 
 mind get usedis!„itenew medium of sight ; seeing all things, 
 as il"aefesr'tfe''6iigf yoTi '• and then, let all I have done be the 
 prelude and the real work begin. I felt it would be so be- 
 fore, and told you at the very beginning — do you remem- 
 ber? And you spoke of lo ' in the proem.' How much 
 more should follow now ! 
 
 And if nothing follows, I have you. 
 
 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 there ; 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 ! 
 
 Tour own 
 
472 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 16 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Saturday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] 
 
 Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one 
 thing displeasing to you to-day, I had not the 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 you, 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 after- 
 wards, when the door is shut and there is no ' more ' light 
 nor speaking until Thursday, why then, that I do not see 
 you but me, — tlien comes the reaction, — the natural length- 
 ening of the shadows at sunset, — and then, the * less, less, 
 less ' grows to seem as natural to my fate, as the ' more ' 
 seemed to your nature— I being I ! 
 
 Sunday. — 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 fall- 
 ing down into the river beneath, where now after all this 
 time they grow green again, I let them float along the cur- 
 rent 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 473 
 
 with my own position here, and whidi is personal to my- 
 self. Tlmt is all tkrown behind — into the bushes — long 
 ago it was, and I think I told you of it before. Agitation 
 comes from indecision — and 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 .... 
 
 So you see ! 
 
 Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have 
 had a rather strange sympathy and dyspathy — the sym- 
 pathy having concerned the genus jilt (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 ex- 
 ceptional 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 unsay- 
 ing 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 cour- 
 ageous for the truth's sake, and instead of blaming them I 
 hold them in honour, for me, and always did and shall. 
 
 And while I write, you are ' very ill ' — very ill ! — how it 
 looks, written dovm so ! When you were gone yesterday 
 and my thoughts had tossed about restlessly for ever so 
 long, I was wise enough to ask Wilson how she thought 
 you were looking, . . and she ' did not know ' . . she 
 
474 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING- [Feb. 16 
 
 ' had not observed ' . . ' only certainly Mr. Browning ran 
 upstairs instead of walking as lie did the time before. ' 
 
 Now promise me dearest, dearest — not to trifle with 
 your health. Not to neglect yourself . . not to tire your- 
 self . . 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 wino 
 for instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into 
 hot water at night, to prevent the recurrence of the morn- 
 ing 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 increase the evil? — mustard mixed with 
 the water, remember. Everything approaching to conges- 
 tion is fuU 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 excite- 
 ment of composition — you promise. If you knew how I 
 keep thinking of you, and at intervals grow so frightened ! 
 Think you, 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. 
 
 May God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of 
 the ' Soul's Tragedy ' should be written out, I can read 
 tJiat 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. ' Your own 
 
 Ba. 
 
1846] AlTD ELIZABETH BAREETT 475 
 
 11 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? 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Sunday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] 
 
 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 real 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 — there is the standard, 
 and to that 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 extrava- 
 gant 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 shut- 
 ting an unprivileged eye to the ineffable mysteries of those 
 ' upper-rooms, ' now that the broom and dust pan, stock- 
 ing-mending and gingerbread-making are invested with 
 
476 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 16 
 
 such unforeseen reverence . . but the carriage-sweep and 
 quarry, together with Jane and our baskets, and a pleas- 
 ant 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 this ! 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 advan- 
 tage of a country-life; and tluxt knowledge gets to seem 
 a high point of attainment doubtless by the side of the 
 Wordsworth she speaks of — for mine he shall not be as long 
 as I am able ! Was ever such a ' great ' 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 even you 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 dis- 
 course ' of one's friend. All this, and the rest of the 
 serene and happy inspired daily life which a piece of ' un- 
 punctuality ' 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 imagination than a pint-pot ' — though in those days 
 he used to walk about France and Flanders like a man? 
 HFoio, 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 one 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 he produces after all the talk of 
 him and the like of him ; why, you get pulvis et cinis — a 
 man at the mercy of the tongs and shovel ! 
 
 Well ! Let us despair at nothing, but, wishing success 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 477 
 
 to the newer aspirant, expect better things from Miss M. 
 when the ' knoll, ' and ' paradise, ' and their facilities, oper- 
 ate 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 com- 
 ing 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 Tmlf duty of the whole 
 Man — as of equal importance (on the ground of the inno- 
 cence and utility of such occupations) with the book-mak- 
 ing aforesaid — always supposing that to be of the right 
 kind — then I respect Miss M. just as I should an Arch- 
 bishop Canterbury whose business was the teaching A. B.C. 
 at an infant-school — he who might set on the Tens to in- 
 struct 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 that 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, 
 Ms quarry and after-solace was that ' marble bowl often re- 
 
478 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Feb. 16 
 
 plenislied with whiskey ' on which Dr. Curry discourses 
 moturnfully. " Oh, be wiser Thou ! ' — and remember it was 
 only after Lord Bacon had written to an end his 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 Ivxnd 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 ' ! 
 
 All this it is my 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 con- 
 tinental lottery-projectors? An estate on the Ehine, for 
 instance, is to be disposed ef, and the holder of the lucky 
 ticket will find himseH suddenly owner of a mediseval 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 tut . . 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 is provided but, he cannot, dares not 
 withhold what is iwt — there is then, to speak plainly, — no 
 night cap ! Tou will have to bring your own night cap. 
 The projector furnishes somewhat, as you hear, but not all 
 — and now — the worst is heard, — will you quarrel with 
 him? Will my own dear, dearest Ba please and help me 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 479 
 
 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 par- 
 don? 
 
 Oh, my own Ba, hear my plain speech — and how this 
 is not an attempt to frighten you out of your dear wish to 
 ' hear 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 you 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 this, that I am your very own — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Monday. 
 [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.] 
 
 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: so 
 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. 
 
 Dear Ba, do you suppose we differ on so plain a point 
 as that of the superior wisdom, and generosity, too, of an- 
 nouncing such a change &c. at the eleventh hour? There 
 can be no doubt of it, — and now, what of it to me? 
 
 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 ! May I take Wed- 
 
480 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Feb. 16 
 
 nesday? 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 last 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 Sat- 
 urday? — yet . . care . . dearest — let nothing horrible 
 happen. 
 
 If I do not hear to the contrary to-morrow — or on Wed- 
 nesday early — 
 
 But write and bless me, dearest, most dear Ba. God 
 bless you ever — 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 17, 1846.] 
 
 MicJiant comme quatre I you are, and not deserving to 
 be let see the famous letter — is there any grammar in that 
 concatenation, can you tell me, now that you are in an arch- 
 critical humour? And remember (turning back to the sub- 
 ject) that personally she and I are strangers and that there- 
 fore 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 
 Jias 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 bete as not to understand how the jest crosses the serious 
 all the way you write. WeU — 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 can- 
 not refuse because he is an intimate friend of Miss Marti- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 481 
 
 neau's and once allowed me to read a whole packet of letters 
 from her to him. She does Bot 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 pro- 
 fession, 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 me 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. 
 
 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 there ? 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 
 Vol. I.— 31 
 
482 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 17 
 
 makes a principle of ' never losing a moment, ' lie is a lost 
 man. Great men are eager to find an hour, and not to 
 avoid losing a moment. ' What are you doing ' said some- 
 body 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 /should choose — who do things quite 
 as trifling without the utility — and even your Seigneurie 
 jjeradventure .... I stop there for fear of growing im- 
 pertinent. The argumentum ad hominem is apt to bring 
 down the argumentum ad haculum, it is as well to remem- 
 ber in time. 
 
 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 cunning (rather than prudence) that I felt a relief 
 and gladness in the new chronicle ; — and you can under- 
 stand how that was. Miss Mitford's doctrine is that every- 
 thing 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 know- 
 ing 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 ! 
 
 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 
 your 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 ver- 
 dict with any jury in Europe, if they were not so far too 
 dear ! Mr. Kenyon wanted to make me show him your 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 483 
 
 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 women's letters,' — 
 till I observed that it was a breach of confidence, except in 
 some cases, . . and that I should complain very much, if 
 anyone, man or woman, acted so by myself. But nobody 
 in the world writes like you — not so vitally— and I have a 
 right, if you please, to praise my letters, besides the reason 
 of it which is as good. 
 
 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 etes un ange. ' The amusing 
 part is that by the same post which brought me the Amble- 
 side document, I heard from Miss Mitf ord ' that it was an 
 admirable thing of Chorley to have persisted in not allow- 
 ing Harriet Martineau to quarrel with him ' . . so that 
 there are laurels on both sides, it appears. 
 
 And I am delighted to hear from you to-day just so, 
 though I reproach you in turn just so . . 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. 
 Maj^ God bless you. Wednesday seems too near (now that 
 this is Monday and you are better) to be our day . . per- 
 haps it does, — and Thursday is close beside it at the worst. 
 Dearest I am your own 
 
 Ba. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.] 
 
 Now forgive me, dearest of all, but I must tease you 
 just a little, and entreat you, if only for the love of me, to 
 have medical advice and follow it ivitlumt furtlier delay. I 
 like to have recourse to these medical people quite as little 
 
484 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb. 17 
 
 as you can — but I am persuaded that it is necessary — that 
 it is at least wise, 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 not, if you wished it? And on Wednesday, 
 yes, on Wednesday, come — that is, if coming on Wednes- 
 day should really be not bad for you, for you must 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Write one line to me to-morrow — literally so little — just 
 to say how you are. I know by the writing here, what is. 
 Let me have the one line by the eight o'clock post to-mor- 
 row, Tuesday. 
 
 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 feel, then, any trembling of the hand? the least 
 trembling? 
 
 May God bless both of us — which is a double blessing 
 for me notwithstanding my badness. 
 
 7 trust you about Wednesday — 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 485 
 
 him till tlie harm he lias done shall have passed away. In 
 my badness I bring false accusation, perhaps, against poor 
 Luria. 
 
 So till Wednesday — or as you shall fix otherwise. 
 
 Your 
 
 Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 ^ Tuesday Evening. 
 
 My dearest, your note reaches me only now, 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 shaU be 
 with you to-morrow, God willing — being quite well. 
 
 Bless you ever — 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 19, 1846.] 
 
 My sweetest, best, dearest Ba I do 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 
 Qr 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. 
 
 I am quite well; indeed, this morning, noticeably -well, 
 they tell me, and well I mean to keep if I can. 
 
 When I got home last evening I found this note — and I 
 have accepted, that I might say I could also keep an en- 
 gagement, if BO minded, at Harley Street — thereby insin- 
 uating that other reasons may bring me into the neighbour- 
 hood than the 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 
 
486 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 19 
 
 somebody going there on a ' mission of humanity ' — grazie 
 tante I 
 
 Did you hear of my meeting someone at the door whom 
 I take to have been one of your brothers? 
 
 One thing vexed me in your letter^ — I will tell you, the 
 praise of my letters. Now, one merit they have — in lan- 
 guage mystical — that of having iw merit. If I caught my- 
 self 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 respect- 
 ing you inordinately, paying a proper tribute to your 
 genius, summoning the necessary coUectedness,- — plenty 
 of all that ! But the feeling with which I write to you, not 
 knowing that it is writing, — with you, face and mouth and 
 hair and eyes opposite me, touching me, knowing that all is 
 as I say, and helping out the imperfect phrases from your 
 own intuition — timt would be gone — and wlmt in its place? 
 ' Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we write to Amble- 
 side.' 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, still, somehow, was obtained with no 
 effort in the world, graphic writing and philosophic and 
 what you please^ — for I will be — would 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 insufficiency of expression, as in the other instance. 
 
1846] A^B ELIZABETH BAEEETT 487 
 
 Now I will leave off— to begin elsewhere — for I am al- 
 ways with you, beloved, best beloved! Now you will 
 write? And walk much, and sleep more? Bless you, 
 dearest — ever — 
 
 Tour own, 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-marks, Mis-sent to Mitcham. February 19 and 20, 1846.] 
 
 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 is too 
 much to speak. So let it pass. Tou 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 fu- 
 ture, 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 should 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 supematurally 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? 
 
 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 wiU try the music, and not be nervous, 
 
488 THE LETTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING- [Feb.19,30 
 
 dearest. Would not riding 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 to- 
 gether ! 
 
 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 mis- 
 erable girl had herself taken step after step into the mire, 
 involved herself gradually, the first guilt being an extrava- 
 gance 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 circum- 
 stances of her supposed position too — where is the respec- 
 tability? 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, persist- 
 ing in every statement. On the coming out of the anony- 
 mous letters, Fitzroy Kelly said to the juniors that if any- 
 one 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 forgery, of course, 
 and to the dreadful consequences, though it is not consid- 
 
1846] AlfD ELIZABETH BAKEETT 489 
 
 ered at all likely that Lord Ferrers could wish, to disturb 
 her beyond the ruin she has brought on her own life. 
 
 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. 
 
 Should I ever change to you, 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 that strange? 
 
 Ever and wholly 
 
 Tour Ba. 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, February 20, 1846.] 
 
 And I offended you by praising your letters — or rather 
 mine, 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 vital letters, I said — which was the resume of 
 my thoughts upon the early ones you sent me, because I 
 felt your letters to be you from the very first, and I began, 
 from the beginning, to read every one several times over. 
 Nobody, I felt, nobody of aU these writers, did write as 
 you did. Well ! — and had I not a right to say that now at 
 last, and was it not natural to say just tltat, when I was 
 talking of other people's letters and how it had grown 
 
490 THE LETTEES OE EOBEKT BEOWNING [Feb. 30 
 
 almost impossible for me to read them ; and do I deserve 
 to be scolded? No indeed. 
 
 And if I had the misfortune to think now, when you 
 say it is a fine day, that tlmt is said in more music than it 
 could be said in by another — where is the sin against you, 
 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 hest to me — 
 and they are iest. I knew what they were, before I knew 
 what you were — all of you. And I like to think that I 
 never fancied anyone on a level with you, even in a letter. 
 
 What makes you take them to be so bad, I suppose, is 
 just feeling in them how near we are. You say that! — 
 not I. 
 
 Bad or good, you are 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 Vol- 
 taire's . . ' ne disons pas de mal de Nicolas.' 
 
 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 
 there, 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 caimot 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 every- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 491 
 
 thing, or seems so. Ever dearest, do you remember wliat 
 it is to me that you should be better, and keep from being 
 worse again — I mean, of course, try 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 ! — 
 
 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 j'our finger the full warm life of other times 
 . . so near they bring you, yet so suddenly aU 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. 
 
 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 ob- 
 served that ' at last he had seen you ! ' ' Virgilium tantum 
 vidi ! ' 
 
 As to the thing which you try to say in the first page 
 of this letter, and which you ' stop ' yourself in saying . . 
 /need not stop you in it. . . . 
 
 And now there is no time, if I am to sleep to-night. 
 May God bless you, dearest, dearest. 
 
 I must be your own while He blesses me. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, February 20, 1846.] 
 
 Here is my Ba's dearest first letter come four hours 
 after the second, with ' Mis-sent to Mitcham ' written on 
 its face as a reason, — one more proof of the negligence of 
 somebody! But I do have it at last — what should I say? 
 
492 THE LETTEKS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 30 
 
 what do you expect me to say? And the first note seemed 
 quite as much too kind as usual ! 
 
 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 him) if even that — for 
 to-morrow night I must go out again, I fear — to pay the 
 ordinary compliment for an invitation to the E. S. 's soir6e 
 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 fish- 
 ing 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). 
 
 As for Chorley, he is neither the one nor the other of 
 those ugly things. One remembers Eegan's ' Oh Heaven 
 — so you will rail at me, 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 so now — and yet am neither hasty, 
 nor inapprehensive, nor malevolent ' — what then? 
 
 — 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. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 21, 1846.] 
 
 As my sisters did not dine at home yesterday and I see 
 nobody else in the evening, I never heard till just now and 
 from Papa himself, that ' George was invited to meet Mr. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 493 
 
 Browning and Mr. Procter. ' How surprised you will be. 
 It must have been a sudden thouglit of Mr. Kenyon's. 
 
 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. Surges 's re- 
 visions of my translations shoiild be revised back again. 
 She appears to be a very acute person, full of quick per- 
 ceptions — 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 2, few editors, 
 friends of his, in order to their communication to the 
 
494 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNESTG [Feb. 21 
 
 public. He received my apology for myself with the 
 utmost graciousness. A kind good man he is. 
 
 After all, do you know, I am a little vexed that I should 
 have even seemed to do wrong in my speech about the let- 
 ters. 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' sing- 
 ing. So do you forgive me, beloved, and put away from 
 you the thought that I have let in between us any miser- 
 able stuff ' de metier, ' which I hate as you hate. And I 
 will not say any more about it, not to run into more im- 
 prudences of mischief. 
 
 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 you very much the reverse, and pray observe that 
 difference. Or did you think that I was making my own 
 road clear in the thing I said about — ' jilts ' ? No, you 
 did not. Tet 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 tliat 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! And to you . . ! Ah, but 
 you never think of such a thing seriously — and you are 
 conscious that you did not say it very sagely. Tou 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? 
 
 It befell that there stood in haU 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 495 
 
 of hawthorn thou holdest in thine hand. ' Now the haw- 
 thorn-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. 
 
 And he answered and said, ' Let not my lord be in 
 haste, nor jest with his servant. Is it verily his wiU that 
 I should keep his golden baton? Let him speak again — 
 lest it repent him of his gift. ' 
 
 And the baron spake again that it was his will. ' And 
 / ' — 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? ' 
 
 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. . . 
 
 Which mine did not. Only, de tefahula narratur up to 
 a point. 
 
 And I have your letter. ' What did I expect? ' Why 
 I expected just that, a letter in turn. Also I am gracious- 
 ly pleased (yes, and very much pleased !) to ' let you write 
 to-morrow.' How you spoil me with goodness, which 
 makes one ' insolent ' as I was saying, now and then. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ymi ever uncomfortable, Ba, after you have sent let- 
 ters to the post? ' she asked me. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' sometimes, but from a reason just the 
 very reverse of your reason, my letters, when they get into 
 the post, seem too kind, — rather. ' And my sisters laughed 
 . . laughed. 
 
 But if you think so beside, I must seriously set to work. 
 
496 THE LETTERS OP EGBERT BROWNING [Feb. 31 
 
 you see, to correct that flagrant fault, and shall do better in 
 time dis faventibus, thougli it ■will be difficult. 
 
 Mr. Kenyon's dinner is a riddle which I cannot read. 
 Tou are invited to meet Miss Thomson and Mr. Bayley 
 and 'no one else.' George is invited to meet Mr. Brown- 
 ing and Mr. Procter and ' no one else ' — just those words. 
 The 'absolu' (do you remember Balzac's beautiful story?) 
 is just you and no one else, ' the other elements being mere 
 uncertainties, shifting while one looks for them. 
 
 Am I not writing nonsense to-night? I am not ' too 
 wise ' 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 me. May God bless you hour by hour. In 
 every one of mine I am your own 
 
 Ba. 
 
 For Miss Mitford . . 
 
 But people are not angels quite . . 
 
 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 me beyond measure. 
 StiU, always I feel that if I were to vex her, the lower deep 
 below the lowest deep would not be low enough for me. I 
 always feel that. She would advertise me directly for a 
 wretch proper. 
 
 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. 
 
 B. B. to K B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 23, 1846.] 
 
 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 497 
 
 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 gaucherie it must have been just your brother ! 
 Now to these letters ! I do solemnly, unaffectedly won- 
 der 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 ap- 
 preciated, proved there — 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 deriv- 
 able 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 think- 
 ing 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 E. 
 B. — to make me supremely happy, and that you have your 
 wish — you do bless me ! More and more, for the old treas- 
 ure is piled undiminished and still the new comes glittering 
 in. Dear, dear heart of my heart, life of my life, loill this 
 last, let me begin to ask? Can it be meant I shall live this 
 Vol. 1.— 33 
 
498 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 23 
 
 to tlie 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 ter- 
 rible to accomplish nothing now. 
 
 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 less kindly? That must not be, love, for your 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 ! Tou 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, pray I 
 
 No — not all. No more, ever, of that strange suspicion 
 — ' insolent ' — oh, what a word ! — nor suppose I shall par- 
 ticularly wonder at its being fancied applicable to that, of 
 all other passages of your letter ! It is quite as reasonable 
 to suspect the existence of such a quality there as elsewhere : 
 how can such a thing, could such a thing come from you to 
 me? But, dear Ba, do you know me better! Do 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 people's words, people in the world. 
 But your 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 win tell you all the matter on Monday if you care to 
 hear. The ' humanity ' however, would have been unques- 
 tionable if I had chosen to exercise it towards the poor 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 499 
 
 weak incapable creature tliat wants somebody, and urgently, 
 I can well believe. 
 
 As for your apologue, it is naught — as you felt, and so 
 broke off — for tlie 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 
 luere, 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 respect- 
 able prize-heifer, worth the oil-cake and rape-seed it had 
 doubtless cost to rear her — ' insolence ! ' 
 
 I foimd 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. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 24, 1846.] 
 
 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. 
 
 If I had had the letter on Saturday as ought to have 
 been, no, I could jwt have answered it so that you should 
 
500 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 24 
 
 have my answer on Sunday — no, I should still have had 
 to write first. 
 
 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 bo 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 pre- 
 tend to think that yours are not more to me, most to me / 
 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 mean- 
 ing 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 . . that is you perhaps, for being ' too 
 easily ' satisfied. 
 
 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 fast- 
 ing 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 signifi- 
 cance, the light which comes to me from you . . think how 
 it is the one light, seen without distractions. 
 
 I was thinking the other day that certainly and after 
 all (or rather before all) I had loved you all my life una- 
 wares, 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 501 
 
 sometimes in a dream and sometimes in a book, and for- 
 swearing 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 her, she insisted, except just 
 that excess of so-called refinement, with the book-know- 
 ledge and the conventional manners, {hue qui pent, Tre- 
 maine) , 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 this being other- 
 wise with me is miraculous compensation for the trials of 
 many years, though such abundant, overabundant compen- 
 sation, 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 vis- 
 ible outward sign of the black hair and the complexion 
 (why 3^ou 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 j^ou smile half. 
 
 Yet indeed I did not fancy that I was to love you 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 hlasie 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 that and let 
 us be friends, and consent to teach me what you knew bet- 
 ter than I, in art and human nature, and give me your sym- 
 pathy 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 
 
502 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Feb. 24 
 
 and a pride, as I used to tell you I am sure, and tlien your 
 letters were not like other letters, as I must not tell you 
 again. Also you influenced 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 every- 
 body 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. Tes . . 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 . . . 
 
 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 them as you read the newspaper — examined them, 
 and fastened them down vmthing under your long ento- 
 mological pins — ah, do you remember the entomology of 
 it all? 
 
 But the power was used upon me — and I never doubted 
 that you had mistaken your own mind, the strongest of us 
 having some exceptional weakness. Turning the wonder 
 round in aU lights, I came to what you admitted yesterday 
 . . yes, I saw that 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 pre- 
 sentiment in the face of mine. Well — and if that last 
 clause was true a little, too . . . why should I be sorry 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 503 
 
 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, then, 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 dimin- 
 ished 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 vain of your love for me, you will be unjust, re- 
 member. If it were less dear, and less above me, I might 
 be vain perhaps. But I may say 'before God and you, that 
 of all the events of my life, inclusive of its afflictions, noth- 
 ing has humbled me so much as your love. Eight or vsrong 
 it may be, but true it is, and I tell you. Tour love has 
 been to me like God's own love, which makes the receivers 
 of it kneelers. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 I cannot love you less . . ? 
 
 That is a doubtful phrase. And 
 
 I cannot love you more 
 
 is doubtful too, for reasons I could give. More or less, I 
 reaUy love you, but it does not sound right, even so, does 
 it? I know what it ought to be, and will put it into the 
 ' seal ' and the ' paper ' with the ineffable other things. 
 
 Dearest, do not go to St. Petersburg. Do not think of 
 going, for fear it should come true and you should go, and 
 
504 THE LETTBES OP EOBEET BEOWNINGr [Feb. 34 
 
 while you were helping the Jews and teaching Nicholas, 
 what (in that case) would become of your 
 
 Ba? 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, February 34, 1846.] 
 
 Ah, sweetest, in spite of our agreement, here is the not© 
 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 dearest 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 may 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 de- 
 sire 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 
 eflfect. 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. 
 
 Dearest, dearest — my perfect blessing you are ! 
 May God continue his care for us. E. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, February 35, 1846.] 
 
 Once yon were pleased to say, my own Ba, that ' I 
 made you do as I would. ' I am quite sure, you make me 
 speak 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 
 fijid' — 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 505 
 
 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 did have a presentiment — and though it is hardly pos- 
 sible for me to look back on it now without lending it the 
 true colours given to it by the event, yet I can put them 
 aside, if I please, and remember that I not merely hoped 
 it would not be so (')wt that the effect I expected to be pro- 
 duced would be less than in anticipation, certainly I did not 
 hope tJiat, but that it would range itself with the old feel- 
 ings of simple reverence and sympathy and friendship, 
 that I should love you as much as I supposed I could 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 teU. 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 differ- 
 ence between the letters and the writer; the greater 'dis- 
 tance of the latter from you, * why was that? Why, if not 
 because the conduct hegmi with liim, with one who had now 
 seen you — was no continuation of the conduct, as influenced 
 by the feeling, of the letters — else, they, if near, should 
 have enabled him, if but in the natural course of time and 
 with increase of familiarity, to become nearer — but it was 
 not so ! The letters began by loving you after their way — 
 but what a world-wide difference between that love and the 
 true, the love from seeing and hearing and feeling, since 
 you make me resolve, what now lies blended so harmoni- 
 ously, 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 don't know that handling may not snap them 
 
506 THE LETTERS OE EGBERT BROWNING [Feb, 25 
 
 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 so 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 ten ? It is 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 aU. — till the 
 next ! I looked yesterday over the ' Tragedy, ' and think 
 it will do after aU. 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. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 507 
 
 Yet one thing will fetter it worse, only one thing — if 
 you, 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 stop — ' then comes 
 the Selah and the voice is hushed. ' Oh, no, no, dearest, 
 so would the help cease to be help — the joy to be joy, Ba 
 herself to be quite 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 vain, 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 — 
 
 Your E. B. 
 
 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? 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 26, 1846.] 
 
 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 are so brittle, 
 then? do you know that 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 his thoughts too, and he 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 
 
508 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 26 
 
 would think. The third person thundered to me in an 
 abstraction for ever so long, and at intervals I hear him still, 
 only jou shall not to-day, because he talks ' damnable itera- 
 tions ' and teases you. Nay, the first person is teasing you 
 now perhaps, without going any further, and yet I must go 
 a little further, just to say (after accepting all possible un- 
 likelinesses and miracles, because everything was miracu- 
 lous 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 unreason- 
 able. Also /or my oiun sake. 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 that 
 prove .? . . 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. 
 
 Dearest and best you were yesterday, to write me the 
 little note ! You are better than the imaginations of my 
 heart, and they, as far as they relate to you (not further) 
 are not 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 justi- 
 fies. And that is my reflection not now for the first time. 
 For we break rules very often — as that exegetical third 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 509 
 
 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?) unmasculine generosity, and Queen Victoria does not 
 sit upon a mat after the fashion of Queen Pomare, nor 
 should. 
 
 But . . but . . you know very fully that you are break- 
 ing faith in the matter of the ' Tragedy ' and ' Luria ' — yoii 
 promised to rest — and you rest for three days. Is it so 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 you! And I . . . if you 
 are ill ! — 
 
 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 jo\i 
 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. 
 
 As for myself, I believe that you set about exhorting 
 me to be busy, just that I might not reproach you for the 
 over-business. Confess that tJiat was the only meaning of 
 the exhortation. But no, you are quite serious, you say. 
 Tou 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 magistrate- 
 ship wiU take away my license to be loved . . I am not to 
 be Ba to you any longer . . you say ! And is this 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. 
 
 As for the writing, I will write . . I have written . . 
 I am writing. You do not fancy that I have given up writ- 
 ing? — No. Only I have certainly been more loitering and 
 
510 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNING [Feb. 26 
 
 distracted than usual in wliat 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 soiil 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. 
 
 And if there were not . . if there were none . . I hold 
 that I should be Ba, and also your Ba . . which is ' inso- 
 lence' . . . will you say? 
 
 R. B. to U. B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, February 26, 1846. ] 
 
 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 Eobert Hall — when a friend ad- 
 mired 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 Eobert; wisely an- 
 swered, "you can't kiss Mind"! May you not discover 
 eventually,' (this is to me) ' that mere intellectual endow- 
 ments — though incontestably of the loftiest character — 
 mere Mind, though that Mind be Miss B's — cannot be 
 hissed — 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 wholly, exclusively based 
 on such perishable attractions as the sweetness of a mouth, 
 the beauty of an eye? I could wish, rather, to know that 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKKETT 511 
 
 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 jus- 
 tice 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, tha-t you — ah, 
 what are you not to me ! My dearest love, bless you — till 
 to-morrow when I will strengthen the prayer ; (no, length- 
 en it !) 
 
 Ever your own. 
 
 ' Hawthorn ' ' — to show how Spring gets on ! 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, February 27, 1846.] 
 
 If all third persons were as foolish as this third person 
 of yours, ever dearest, first and second persons might fol- 
 low 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 singular for the nonsense he talks ! 
 
 So, instead of him, you shall hear what I have been 
 doing to-day. The sun, which drew out you and the haw- 
 thorns, 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 
 
 ' [Sprig of Hawthorn enclosed with letter.] 
 
512 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [Feb. 27 
 
 and see the great sight of Capt. Surtees Cook— plus 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 laugh- 
 ing and haK quarreling, still she kept me by force, until 
 a knock came most significantly . . and 'There is Sur- 
 tees ' said she . . ' now you must and shall stay ! So fool- 
 ish, ' (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 his- 
 tory is, that being able to talk at aU after all that ' fuss, ' 
 and after walking ' upstairs and downstairs ' like the an- 
 cestor of your spider, proves my gigantic strength — now 
 doesn't it? 
 
 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? 
 
 And Mrs. Jameson was kind beyond speaking of, and 
 talked of taking me to Italy. WTiat 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 kind- 
 ness, one cannot laugh at so much kindness. 
 
 I wanted to hear her speak of you, and was afraid. I 
 
1846] Alfj) ELIZABETH BAERETT 613 
 
 could not name you. Yet I did want to hear the last ' Bell ' 
 praised. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ah my hawthorn spray ! Do you know, I caught my- 
 self 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, that is certain ! 
 
 The first you ever gave me was a yellow rose sent in a 
 letter, and shall I tell you what that means — the yellow 
 rose? 'Infidelity,' says the dictionary of flowers. Tou see 
 what an omen, . . to begin with ! 
 
 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 me. 
 
 And I shall hear to-morrow again, really? I' let' 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 thought so. May God bless you. I am 
 your own. 
 
 Shall I have the ' Soul's Tragedy ' on Saturday? — any 
 of it? But do not work — I beseech you to take care. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, February 27. 1846.] 
 
 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 — quod erat 
 demonstrandum. But you, love, you speak roses, and haw- 
 VoL. I.— 33 
 
514 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Feb. 27 
 
 thorn-blossoms when yon 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 sol- 
 diers 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 — 
 
 Stand back, and let me mow this poppy down, 
 This rank red weed that spoils the Churches' com. 
 
 Is not that good? and presently, when the same worthy is 
 poisoned (that is the Cardinal) — they bid him — ' now, Car- 
 dinal, lie down and roar ! 
 
 Think of thy scarlet sins ! 
 
 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, 
 Eaphael ! — then twenty names about, and last but one, as 
 if just thought of, ' Correggio. ' The whole collection, in- 
 cluding ' a divine picture by Murillo,' and Titian's Daugh- 
 ter (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-paint- 
 ings even ! Are there worse poets in their way than paint- 
 ers? ' 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 we 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 515 
 
 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 comes out after 
 a dozen years with ' Titian's Daughter ' and, there, gone 
 is his life, let somebody else try ! 
 
 I have tried — my trial is made too ! 
 
 To-morrow you shall tell me, dearest, that Mrs. Jame- 
 son 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 ! ' — vvould I knew when the 
 prophetic weeks end! Still, one day, as I say, no more 
 writing, (and great scandalization of the third person, peep- 
 ing 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, some- 
 thing tells me, ' for reasons, for reasons' — 
 
 I do not know — you may perhaps have to wait a little 
 longer for ray ' 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 do 
 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^ 
 
 But Ba, I call you boldly here, and I dare kiss your 
 dear, dear eyes, till to-morrow — Bless you, my own. 
 
516 THE LETTEKS OF ROBEET BEOWNING [March 2 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] 
 
 You never could think that I naeant 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. Tou 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 you. But 
 you began speaking of yourself just as a woman might 
 speak under the same circumstances (you remember what 
 you said), and then I, remembering that all the men in the 
 world would laugh such an idea to scorn, said something 
 to that effect, you Icnoio. I once was in company with a 
 man, however, who valued himself very much on his con- 
 stancy to a woman who was so deeply affected by it that 
 she became his wife at last . . and the whole neighbour- 
 hood 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, Jioiu many ? ' 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 aUer. ' 
 
 Beloved, I could not mean this for you; you are not 
 made of such stuff, as we both know. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 517 
 
 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 conse- 
 quence 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 
 decisions 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 sup- 
 pose, and the very appearance of it there, is what most re- 
 buts 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 form. 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 find- 
 ing 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 wiU forget all 
 about it, and I was not scolded, do you vmderstand. It was 
 more manner, but my sisters thought as I did of the sig- 
 nificance : — 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 there. 
 
 And to-day I went downstairs (to prove how my prom- 
 ises stand) though I could find at least ten good excuses 
 for remaining in my own room, for our cousin, Sam Bar- 
 rett, 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 ' so sorry, ' she said, 
 
618 THE LETTEKS OE EOBEET BROWOTNG [March 3 
 
 dear child, to have missed Papa somewhere on the stairs !) 
 the cousin who should have been in Brittany yesterday in- 
 stead 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 
 half -past two ! I went for half an hotir, just — just for you. 
 Did you think of me, I wonder? It was to meet j'our 
 thoughts that I went, dear dearest. 
 
 How clever these sketches are. The expression pro- 
 duced by such apparently inadequate means is quite strik- 
 ing; 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 iU. Beware too of the shower-bath — it plainly does 
 not answer for you at this season. And walk, and think 
 of me for your good, if such a combination should be pos- 
 sible. 
 
 And I think of you . . if I do not of Italy. Yet I for- 
 get 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 pic- 
 ture — is it not?) where the mystic visitors look like shep- 
 herds 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 bad- 
 ness is more ostentatious than that of poets — they stare 
 idiocy out of the walls, and set the eyes of sensitive men on 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 5iy 
 
 edge. For the rest, however, I very much doubt whether 
 they wear their lives more to rags, than writers who mis- 
 take 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? 
 
 If ever I am in the Sistine Chapel, it will not be with 
 Mrs. Jameson — no. If ever I should be there, what teach- 
 ing I shall want, 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 igno- 
 rant 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 that I 
 It is a guess, I make, at all the greatness and divinity . . 
 feeling in it, though, distinctly and certainly, that a com- 
 poser like Beethoven must 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 iUness, I should have 
 left a sealed world behind me! you, unknown too — un- 
 guessed at, you, . . in many respects, wonderfully un- 
 guessed at! Lately I have learnt to despise my own in- 
 stincts. And apart from those — and you, . . 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 expe- 
 rience of this . . the last revelation, unread! How the 
 thought of it used to depress me sometimes ! 
 
 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 pro- 
 gramme exhibits all the horrors of the world, I see ! Life- 
 
520 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [Maech 2 
 
 boats . . madhouses . . gambler's 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. Eussell, 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 verbatim for you . . 
 
 And the threads twirl, twirl, twirl. 
 
 Before each boy and girl ; 
 And the wheels, big and little, still whirl, whirl, whirl. 
 
 . . accompaniment agitato, imitating the roar of the ma- 
 chinery ! 
 
 This is not endurable . . ought not to be . . should 
 it now? Do tell me. 
 
 May God bless you, very dearest ! Let me hear how 
 you are — and think how I am 
 
 Tour own . . 
 
 S. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] 
 
 Dearest, I have been kept in town and just return in 
 time to say why you have no note . . to-morrow I will 
 write . . so much there is to say on the subject of this 
 letter I find. 
 
 Bless you, all beloved — 
 
 E. B. 
 
 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. ' 
 
1846] AITD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 521 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 2, 1846.] 
 
 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, does 
 so yearn, love, to do something to prove its devotion for 
 you ; and, now and then, amuses itself with foolish imag- 
 inings 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 recog- 
 nise them — I mean, that since you do accept, far from ' de- 
 spising this day of small things, ' then I may take heart, 
 and be sure that even though none of the great achieve- 
 ments should fall to my happy chance, still the barrenest, 
 flattest life will — must of needs produce in its season better 
 fruits than these poor ones — I keep it, value it, now, that 
 it may produce such. 
 
 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 
 
 One another huddled lie . . 
 Close beside Her tenderly— 
 
 (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 should I know? Of aU fighting — ^the 
 
522 THE LETTEES OE ROBERT BROWNING [Makch 2 
 
 warfare with shadows — what a work is there. But tell 
 me, — and, with you for me — 
 
 Bless me dearest ever, as the face above mine blesses 
 me — 
 
 Your own. 
 
 Sir Moses set off this morning, I hear — somebody yes- 
 terday called the telescope an ' optical delusion, ' anticipat- 
 ing many more of the kind ! So much for this ' wandering 
 Jew.' 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] 
 
 TJpon 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 you, is 
 always much to me — and then, besides, tlie letter comes, and 
 with it the promise of another ! Two letters have I had 
 from 3'ou to-day, ever dearest ! How I thank you ! — yes, 
 indeed I It was like yourself to write yesterday . . to re- 
 member 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 — Saturdaj' 
 night bringing no letter. Well, it was very good of you, 
 best of you ! 
 
 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 /, if you please, who spoke of the chrystals 
 breaking away! And you, to quote me with that cer- 
 tainty ! " The chrystals are broken off, you say. ' 1 say ! ! 
 When it was in your letter, and not at all in mine ! ! 
 
 The truth is that I was stupid, rather, about the Dul- 
 wich 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 myseK a chance, by con- 
 sidering. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 523 
 
 Mr. Kenyon came to-day, and has taken out a licence, 
 it seems to me, for praising you, for lie praised and praised. 
 Somebody has told him (who had spent several days with 
 j'ou 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 earnest- 
 ly I am sure, that you would finish 'Saul' — which you 
 ought to do, must do — only not noiv. 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I did not go do-wTistairs to-day because the wind blew 
 and the thermometer fell. To-morrow, perhaps I may. 
 And you, 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 will have my letter of course, it shall be as 
 brief as possible, if briefness is good for you — now always 
 remember tJuit. 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 me just so much. 
 
524 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNINa [March 3 
 
 And, except tliat taking care of your health, what would 
 you do for me that you have not done? Tou have given 
 me the beat of the possible gifts of one human soul to an- 
 other, you have made my life new, and am I to count these 
 things as small and insufficient? Ah, you know, you know 
 that I cannot, ought not, will not. 
 
 May God bless you. He blesses me in letting me be 
 grateful to you as your Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.] 
 
 First and most important of all, — dearest, 'angry' — 
 with you, and for tlmt ! It is just as if I had spoken con- 
 temptuously 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 AYatteau, 
 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 one 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 seeing, (not, not ^looking for') — seeing 
 undue ' security ' in tliat, in the form, — ^I meant to say 
 ' you talk about me being ' free ' now, free till then, and I 
 am rather jealous of the potency attributed to the form, 
 with all its solemnity, because it is a form, and no more — 
 yet you frankly agree with me that that form complied 
 with, there is no redemption; yours lam then sure enough, 
 to repent at leisure &c. &c. So I meant to ask, ' then, all 
 nmv said, all short of that particular form of saying it, all 
 goes for comparatively nothing ' ? Here it is written down 
 — ^you ' wish to suspend aU decisions as long as possible ' — 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 525 
 
 tlmt 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 not decided now—yrhy — hear a story, 
 k 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 ami- 
 cable smile — ' at least let us hope we are both engaged in 
 ihe ^pursuit of Truth!' — 'Pursuit do you say?' cried the 
 other, ' here am I with my years eighty and odd — if I 
 haven't found Truth by this time where is my chance, 
 pray? ' My own Ba, if I have not already decided, alas for 
 me and the solemn words that are to help ! Though in an- 
 other 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 ' wishes ' — 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 tied under 
 it ' — the exquisiteness of the delight was to be in the secur- 
 ity upon security,- — the being ' tied. ' Now, Ba says I shall 
 not be ' chained ' if she can help ! 
 
 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 will always see with 
 your eyes there — next, what I see I will never 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 
 will not affect to be so bad, so wicked, as I count wicked- 
 ness, as to call that conduct other than intolerable — there, 
 in my conviction of that, is your real ' security ' and mine 
 
526 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [Maech 3 
 
 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 every 
 pleasui-e 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 used in 
 this world, — where it saves us, we are taught, or destroys ns, 
 — -and not to be sunk quietly, overlooked, and forgotten; 
 that, under these circumstances, finding . . what, you say, 
 unless he thinks he does 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 him- 
 self ' iwt pleased plainly, ' at such a circumstance . . my 
 Ba, it is SHOCKING ! See, I go wlwlly 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 sev- 
 eral 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 peo- 
 ple 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 this had 
 been done, I shall not deny that my heart would have ac- 
 cused me — unreasonably I hiow but still, suppression, and 
 reserve, and apprehension — the whole of that is horrible 
 always ! But this way of looking on the endeavour of any- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 527 
 
 body, however humble, to just preserve your life, remedy 
 in some degree the first, if it was the first, unjustifiable 
 measure, — this being ' displeased ' — is exactly what I did 
 7wt calculate upon. Observe, that in this only 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 mon- 
 strous on the world's showing ! I say this now that I may 
 never need recur to it — that you may imderstand why I 
 keep such entire silence henceforth. 
 
 Get but well, keep but as 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 pray 
 you, at your feet, to do this, dearest 1 Then comes Autumn, 
 with the natural expectations, as after rouge one expects 
 noir : the likelihood of a severe 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 shad- 
 ow of ground for a refusal than before, if you are well, 
 plainly well enough to bear the voyage) there I will bid 
 you ' be mine in the obvious way ' — if you shall preserve 
 your belief in me — and you may 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, tenax propositi, able to make out a life for himself 
 and abide in it — ' for, ' he went on, ' you really do live 
 without any of this titillation and fussy dependence upon 
 adventitious excitement of all kinds, they all say they can 
 do without.' That is more true — and I intend by God's 
 help to live wholly for you ; to spend my whole energies 
 in reducing to practise 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 allow- 
 ing the world to very much misinterpret — against pure 
 lying there is no defence, but all up to that I hope to 
 
528 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING- [March 3 
 
 hinder or render unimportant — as you shall know in time 
 and place. 
 
 I have written myself grave, but write to me, 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. Mon- 
 tagu 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 And the rest shall answer yours — dear ! Not ' much to 
 answer? ' And Beethoven, and Painting and — what is the 
 rest and shall be answered ! Bless you, now, my darling — 
 I love you, ever shall love you, ever be your own. 
 
 U. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 4, 1846.] 
 
 Tes, 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 weU as a form, and involv- 
 ing 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 529 
 
 were to pass witli you now, you stand free to act according 
 to tlie wide-awakeness of your eyes, and to reform your 
 choice . . see ! whereas afterward you could not carry out 
 Buch 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 is 
 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 Brin- 
 villiers under the water-torture. That he ashed to be tied 
 up, was unwise on his own principle of loving ale. And 
 you sha'n't be ' chained ' up, if you were to ask twenty 
 times ; if you have found truth or not in the water-well. 
 
 You do not see aright what I meant to tell you on an- 
 other 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, that would have been done at once 
 and unscrupulously. But without defining his own feel- 
 ing, 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. Cerr 
 tainly 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 wiU be in danger of being thanked, 
 he would not think of it. For the reserve, the apprehen- 
 sion — 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 miscon- 
 VoL. I.— 34 
 
630 THE LETTEES OF ROBEET BEOWNING [March 4 
 
 ception 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 chat- 
 tels, and the duties of human sympathy to them become 
 difficult in proportion. And (it seems strange to say it, 
 jet it is true) love, he does not conceive of at aU. He has 
 feeling, he can be moved deeply, he is capable of affection 
 in a peculiar way, but that, he does not understand, any 
 more than he understands Chaldee, respecting it less of 
 course. ' 
 
 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 saperfluity 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 begin- 
 ning. 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. Tou will be mad, 
 and I shall be bad . . and that 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, tJiere you are ! 
 
 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 raisonnee of your faults? I should like it, 
 I think. In the meantime they seem to be faults of ob- 
 scurity, that is, invisible faults, like those in the poetry 
 which do not keep it from selling as I am so, so glad to 
 understand. I am glad too that Mr. Milnes knows you a 
 little. 
 
 Now I must end, there is no more time to-night. God 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 531 
 
 bless you, very dearest ! Keep better . . try to be well — 
 as / do for you since you ask me. Did I ever think that you 
 would think it worth while to ask me that ? 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 wiU, . . be sure . . be sure. Till Thursday then ! 
 — till eternity ! 
 
 * Till when, where am I,' but with j'ou? and what, but 
 yours 
 
 Tour 
 
 Ba. 
 
 I have been writing ' autographs ' (save my mark) 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. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 "Wednesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 4, 1846.] 
 
 Ah, sweetest, don't mind people and their lies any more 
 than I shall ; if the toad does ' 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 indiffer- 
 ence (far below contempt) 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. 
 
 I dare say I am unjust — hasty certainly, in the other 
 
532 THE LETTEES OE EGBERT BROWNING [March 4 
 
 matter — but all faults are sucli iuasmucli as they are ' mis- 
 takes 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 wore to hear anyone assert such a right in 
 my presence. 
 
 Well, I shall see you to-morrow — had I better come a 
 little later, I wonder? — half-past three, for instance, stay- 
 ing, 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 not hear, at the usual time ! — because, I 
 think you would— am sure you would have considered and 
 suggested it, were it necessary. 
 
 Bless you, dearest — ever your own. 
 
 I said nothing about that Mr. Eussell and his proposi- 
 tion — 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 ' hy the singer ' 
 — with that precaution nothing but good can come of his 
 using it. 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Thursday. 
 [Post-mark, March 6, 1846.] 
 
 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. 
 
 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 my 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. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 533 
 
 Still I, wlio said what I did, far you, and from an absorb- 
 ing consideration of wliat was best /or you, cannot consent, 
 even out of anxiety for your futurity, to torment you now, 
 to vex you by a form of speecb which, you persist in trans- 
 lating into a want of trust in you . . (/, want trust in you ! !) 
 into a need of more evidence about you from others . . 
 {could 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 m&y feel that too. Now, it is done — 
 now, you are chained — Bia has finished the work — 1, Ba! 
 (obser^'e 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 must, if you please, 
 because you belong to me now and shall beKeve as I 
 choose. There's a ukase for you! Cry out . . repent . . 
 and I will loose the links, and let you go again — slvaU it 
 be ^My dear Miss Barrett? ' 
 
 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 — that would be the one result with me. 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 you 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 — 
 
534 THE LETTEES OE KOBEET BEOWNING [March 6 
 
 unless illness should intervene — and you will be kind and 
 good (will you not?) and not think liard 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 / who am ' unworthy, ' and not another — 
 not certainly that other ! 
 
 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 Avrite poems, nor read, nor neglect the walking, nor 
 take that shower-bath. WiU you, instead, try the warm 
 bathing? Surely the experiment is worth making for a 
 little while. Dearest beloved, do it for your own 
 
 Ba. 
 
 i?. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 6, 1846.] 
 
 I am altogether your own, dearest — the words were 
 only words and the playful feelings were play — while the 
 fact has always been so irresistibly obvious as to make 
 them break on and off it, fantastically like water turning to 
 spray and spurts of foam on a great solid rock. How 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 is 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 pedes- 
 tal for a statue, but it is real rock, that is all. 
 
 It is always / who ' torment ' you — 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 be- 
 loved, that is as different in kind as in degree from any 
 other happiness or semblance of it that even seemed pos- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 535 
 
 sible of realization. Then, now, the health is all to stay, 
 or retard us — oh, be well, my Ba ! 
 
 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 
 did hear of them, all any body would 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. Tou bade me not send the letter : I will 
 not. 
 
 As for ' what people say ' — ah — Here lies a book, Bar- 
 toli's ' Simboli ' and this morning I dipped into his Chap- 
 ter XIX. His ' Symbol ' is ' Socrate fatto ritrar su' Boc- 
 cali ' and the theme of his dissertating, ' L' indegnit^ del 
 mettere in disprezzo i piu degni filosofi dell' antichita. ' 
 He sets out by enlarging on the horror of it — then de- 
 scribes the character of Socrates, then t«lls 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 scheme e derisione del 
 pubblico, che perfino i vasai dipingevano il suo ritratto 
 sopra gli orci, i fiaschi, i boccali, e ogni vasellamento da 
 pill vile servigio. Cos! quel sommo filosofo . . fu con- 
 dotto a far di se par le case d'Atene una continua comme- 
 dia, con solamente vederlo comparir cosi scontraffatto e 
 ' ridicolo, come i vasai sel formavano d' invenzione ' — 
 
 There you have what a very clever man can say in choice 
 Tuscan on a passage in Julian which he takes care not to 
 quote nor aUude to, but which is the sole authority for the 
 fact, ^lian, 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 ^lian — ' was no difficulty for them, to whom his fea- 
 tures were most familiar, — the very potters ieing in the habit 
 of decorating their vessels with his likeness ' — no doubt out of 
 
536 THE LETTEKS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [March 6 
 
 a pleasant and affectionate admiration. Tet see how ' peo- 
 ple ' can turn this out of its sense,—' say ' their say on the 
 simplest, plainest word or deed, and change it to its op- 
 posite ! ' God's great gift of speech abused ' indeed! 
 
 But what shall we hear of it there, my Siren? 
 
 On Monday — is it not? Who was it looked into the 
 room just at our leave-taking? 
 
 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 — vdth this letter ! 
 
 Tour own 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Friday EveniDg. 
 [Post- mark, March 7, 1846.] 
 
 Always you, is it, who torments me? always you? 
 Well ! I agree to bear the torments as Socrates his per- 
 secution by the potters : — and by the way he liked those 
 potters, as Plato shows, and was fain to go to them for his 
 ilUustrations . . 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. 
 
 For the letter you mentioned, I meant to have said in 
 mine yesterday, that I was grateful to you for telling me 
 of it — that'<i7&s one of the prodigalities of your goodness to 
 me . . not thrown away, in one sense, however superflu- 
 ous. Do you ever think how I must feel when you over- 
 come me with all this generous tenderness, only beloved ! 
 I cannot say it. 
 
 Because it is colder to-day I have not been downstairs, 
 but let to-morrow be warm enough — facilis descensus. 
 There's something infernal to me really, in the going down, 
 and now too that our cousin is here ! Think of his begin- 
 ning to attack Henrietta the other day . . ' So Mr. C. has 
 retired and left the field to Surtees Cook. Oh . . you 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 537 
 
 needn't deny . . it's the news of all the world except your 
 father. And as to Mm, I don't blame you — he never will 
 consent to the marriage of son or daughter. Only you 
 should consider, you know, because he wont 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 persuad- 
 ing 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 beyond, 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 
 tJmt, and without knowledge too. 
 
 I forgot to tell you that Mr. Kenyon was in an immod- 
 erate joy the day I saw him last, about Mr. Poe's ' Eaven ' 
 as seen in the Athenceum 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 stiU stay on Monday tiU the last mo- 
 ment, and go to him for dinner at six. 
 
 Who ' looked in at the door? ' Nobody. But Arabel 
 a little way opened it, and hearing your voice, went back. 
 There was no harm — is 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. 
 
 Are you trying the music to charm the brain to still- 
 ness? 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. 
 
 So my rock . . may the birds drop into your crevices 
 
638 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING- [March? 
 
 the seeds of all the flowers of the world only it is not 
 
 for those, that I cling to you as the single rock in the salt 
 sea. Ever I am 
 
 Tour own. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 7, 1846.] 
 
 Tou 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, — 'my Ba, ' I say to 
 myself ! 
 
 About mj fears — whether of opening doors or entering 
 people — one thing is observable and prevents the possibil- 
 ity of any misconception — I desire, have been in the habit 
 of desiring, to increase them, far from diminishing — they 
 relate, of course, entirely to you — and only through you 
 affect me the least in the world. Put your well-being out 
 of the question, so far as I can understand it to be in- 
 volved, — 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 remem- 
 ber on all occasions— and perhaps succeed in too few— that 
 it is very easy for me to go away and leave you who can- 
 not go. I only allude to this because some people are 
 ' naturally nervous ' and all that — and I am quite of an- 
 other kind. 
 
 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 
 
1846] 
 
 AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 
 
 639 
 
 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, ' Phcenix ' — the unapproach- 
 able 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 t-)-ue? The Idea, 
 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 not according to the 
 Ideal of their own time — just now, they drop into the 
 ready ear, — next hundred years, who will be the Eossini? 
 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 should change 
 every thirty years ! To Corelli nothing seemed so conclu- 
 sive in Heaven or earth as this 
 
 IB^ 
 
 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 
 
 $ 
 
 -j®— 
 
 r-jLr r^ 
 
540 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BROWNmG [March? 
 
 — that was the only true consummation! Then, — to go 
 over the hundred years, — came Rossini's unanswerable 
 coda: 
 
 which serves as base to the infinity of songs, gone, gone — 
 so gone by ! From all of which Ba draws this ' 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 Eossini who directed his letters to his mother 
 as ' mother of the famous composer ' — and Henry Lawes, 
 and Dowland's Lute, ah me ! 
 
 Well, my conclusion is the best, the everlasting, here 
 and I trust elsewhere — I am your own, my Ba, ever your 
 
 n. 
 
 K B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 10, 1846.] 
 
 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 unap- 
 proachable — will prove so, it seems to me. But this ' Trag- 
 edy ' shows more heat from the first, and then, the words 
 jbeat down more closely . . well ! I am struck by it all as 
 lyou see. If you keep it up to this passion, if you justify 
 I this high key-note, it is a great work, and worthy of a place 
 
1846] AJSTD ELIZABETH BAEEETT 541 
 
 next ' Luria. ' Also do observe how excellently balanced 
 the two will be, and how the tongue of this next silver BeU 
 will swing from side to side. And you 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 you — and the adviseableness 
 of its publication, a doubtful case. And yet, after aU, the 
 really worst is, that you should prove yourself such an 
 adept at deceiving ! For can it be possible that the same 
 
 ' Robert Browning ' 
 
 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 my ears ! 
 
 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 uneasi- 
 ness 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 . . shall. 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 artictdate 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. 
 
 Shall I go downstairs to-day? ' No ' say the privy 
 councillors, ' because it is cold, ' but I shall go peradven- 
 ture, because the sun brightens and brightens, and the wind 
 has gone round to the west. 
 
542 THE LETTERS OE EOBEET BEOWNING [MaechIO 
 
 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. 
 
 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 to 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, out there ! 
 
 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 
 that, as it appeared afterward. Were you, yesterday, in 
 pretending to think that I owed you nothing . . I? 
 
 May God bless you. He knows that to give myself to 
 you, is not to pay you. Such debts are not so paid. 
 
 Yet I am your 
 
 Ba. 
 
 People's Journal for March 7th. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 10, 1846.] 
 
 Dear, dear Ba, if you were here I should not much 
 speak 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 might 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 543 
 
 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 remem- 
 ber — well, what 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, now, 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 ex- 
 ercise, 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 is considerable, — taken 
 into account the previous mildness. One iU-advised (I, 
 the adviser, I should remember !) too early, or too late de- 
 scent 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 ! 
 
 I will write to-morrow more : I came home last night 
 with a head rather worse ; which in the event was the bet- 
 ter, for I took a little medicine and all is very much im- 
 proved 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 inevi- 
 table 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 Booms. All was very pleasant last 
 evening — and your letter &c. went h qui de droit, and Mr. 
 
544 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BEOWNING [March 10 
 
 W. Junior had to smile good naturedly when Mr. Surges 
 began laying down this general law, that the sons of all 
 men of genius were poor creatures — and Chorley and I ex- 
 changed 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 aU I give you is just my 
 heart's blessing; God bless you, my dearest, dearest Ba! 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 11, 1846.] 
 
 You find my letter I trust, for it was written this morn- 
 ing 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. 
 Ton 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 ne- 
 cessity. Oh — should I bear it, do you think? I was think- 
 ing, when you went away — after you had quite gone. Tou 
 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 fuU 
 quarter of an hour to pass before he returns to take his 
 share. Did you ever hear of a dog before who did not per- 
 secute one with beseeching eyes at mealtimes ? And remem- 
 ber, this is not the effect of discipline. Also if another than 
 myself happens to take coffee or break bread in the room 
 here, he teazes straightway with eyes and paws, . . teazes 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 545 
 
 like a common dog and is put out of the door before he can 
 be quieted by scolding. But with me he is sublime ! More- 
 over 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 
 fear accomplished without an objection on his side, always. 
 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 could say 
 Jww 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 not the insufficiency of the recollections. 
 There might have been something besides in jest. Ah, 
 but you remember, if you please, that /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 happi- 
 ness goes, the recollections were enough, . . are enough 
 for me/ I mean that I should acknowledge them to be fuU 
 compensation for the bitter gift of life, such as it was, to 
 me ! if that subject-matter were broken off here ! ' Bona 
 verba ' let me speak nevertheless. Tou 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 here- 
 after to make you vexed with me? What is there in mar- 
 riage 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 
 us — I Imow that. 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 
 Vol. I.— 35 
 
546 THE LETTEES OF EGBERT BEOWNING [March 11 
 
 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. 
 
 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 aU — for you let people 
 make you ill, and do it yourself upon occasion. 
 
 Tou 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 ! 
 
 And so, good-night, dear dearest. In spite of my fine 
 speeches about ' recollections, ' I should be unhappy enough 
 to please you, with mdy those . . without you beside ! I 
 could not take myself back from being 
 
 Tour own — 
 
 B. JB. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, March 11, 1846.] 
 Dear, dear Ba, but indeed I did return home earlier by 
 two or three good hours than the night before — and to find 
 no letter, — none of yours ! That was reserved for this morn- 
 ing 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 ' after- 
 ward,' 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 547 
 
 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 j'ou will not alter, will just remain as you 
 are — meaning by ' you, ' the love in you, the qualities I have 
 known (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 
 IDasses, — 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 ! Tou speak of my 
 feeling as if it were a pure speculation — as if because I see 
 someivJiat 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 do think at times on what may be to find ! But 
 what is that to you? I offer for the hdellium — the other 
 may be found or not found . . what I see glitter on the 
 ground, tJiat will suffice to make me rich as — rich as — 
 
 So bless you my own Ba ! I would not wait for paper, 
 and you must forgive half-sheets instead of a whole celes- 
 tial quire to my love and praise. Are j'ou 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 jiist this minute putting off his dinner on account 
 of the death of his wife's sister's husband abroad) Ob- 
 serve this 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 — 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post mark, March 12, 1846.] 
 When my Orpheus writes ' IlepX XWwv ' he makes a great 
 mistake about onyxes — there is more true onyx in this let- 
 ter of his that I have just read, than he will ever find in the 
 
548 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [March 12 
 
 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, say- 
 ing . . . ' Nothing but mica ! ! ' Is anybody to be rich 
 through ' mica', I wonder? through ' Nothing but mica? ' 
 ' As rich as — as rich as ' . . Walter the Pennyless ? 
 
 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, so, I get frightened of the 
 opening of your eyelids to the wnworthiness? 'A little 
 sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to 
 sleep ' — there, 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 
 do pass away in this world. But you, /understand you, 
 and all your goodness past expression, past belief of mine, 
 if I had not known you . . just you. If it will satisfy you 
 that I should know you, love you, love you — why then in- 
 deed — 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. ' 
 
 To-day I went downstairs 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 Satur- 
 day 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 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 549 
 
 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 ^schylus — 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. 
 
 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 forti- 
 tude under the disappointment. How much philosophy 
 does it take, — please to instruct me,^in order to the de- 
 cent bearing of such disasters? Can I fancy one, shorter 
 than you by a whole head of the soul, condescending to 
 ' hear ' such things? No, indeed. 
 
 Be good and kind, and do not work at the ' Tragedy ' 
 . . do not. 
 
 So you and I have written out all the paper in Lon- 
 don ! At least, I send and send in vain to have more en- 
 velopes ' 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 out 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 aU of course. 
 
 For my part I think more of Chiappino — Chiappino 
 holds fast. 
 
 But I must let you go — it is too late. This dearest let- 
 ter, 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. 
 
 Tour Ba. 
 
550 THE LBTTEES OP EOBEET BEOWNING [March 13 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 fPost-mark, March 13, 1846.] 
 
 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 
 thoughts ; whereas the dear, miraculous dream you were, 
 and are, my Ba ! Only, vanish — that you will never ! My 
 own, and for ever ! 
 
 Yesterday I read the poor, inconceivably inadequate 
 notice in the 'People's Journal.' 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 heard 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 transfer- 
 ring all sorts of burthens, in that theatrical world, from 
 responsible to irresponsible members of it, actors to man- 
 ager, 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. 
 
 Still you go down stairs, and still return safely, and 
 every step leads us nearer to my ' hope. ' How unremit- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAKEETT 651 
 
 tingly you bless me — a visit promises a letter, a letter 
 brings sucli news, crowns me with sucli 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 do say — ' I was poor, it now seems, a minute ago, when I 
 had not this ! ' Bless you, dear, dear Ba. On Saturday I 
 shall be with you, I trust — may God bless you! Ever 
 your own 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, March 16, 1846.] 
 
 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 prob- 
 ably 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 couldn't say it at 
 the time) that you are not if you please to fancy that be- 
 cause I am a woman I have not the pretension to do with 
 as little in any way as you yourself . . no, it is not that 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 ')ne; for while you are thinking so, our thoughts go 
 different ways, which is wrong. Mr. Eox 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 voca- 
 tion 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 
 
552 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [March 16 
 
 in nearly ever since . . when I was well enougli. Well — • 
 tluit 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. Tes — ' confiteor 
 tibi ' besides, that I do hate white dimity curtains, which 
 is highly improper for a religious hermit of course, but ex- 
 cusable in me who would accept brown serge as a substi- 
 tute 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 not to put those two ideas together again of me 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 — what is good far you is good for me. Otherwise I 
 shall be humiliated, you know ; just as far as I know your 
 thoughts. 
 
 Mr. Kenyon has been here to-day — and I have been 
 downstairs — 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 dont see why I should ask you, 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 hap- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 553 
 
 pened to me before, witli Mr. Kenyon, three times — once 
 particxilarly, 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. Tlmt was in 
 the summer; and all to be said for it now, is, that it 
 couldn't be helped : couldn't! 
 
 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 
 AthencBum 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 con- 
 founded 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 ignora- 
 mus himself, on Mme. Charles Eeybaud, encouraging that 
 pure budding novelist, who is in fact a hack writer of ro- 
 mances 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 — 
 jom-nal rather — (the ' Foreign Eeview,' so called, touching 
 only the summits of the hills) a journal which might be on 
 a level with the intelligent readers of aU. the countries of Eu- 
 rope, and take all the rising reputations of each, vdth the 
 national light on them as they rise, into observation and 
 judgement. 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 Athenceum, and say something prodigious- 
 ly absurd of it, till people cry out ' oh oh ' as in the House 
 of Commons. 
 
 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 
 
554 THE LETTERS OF EGBERT BROWNING [March 16 
 
 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 Der- 
 vishes turning in the sun when you say such words to me 
 — and I never shall love you any ' less, ' because it is too 
 much to be made less of. 
 
 And you write to-morrow? and will tell me how you 
 are? honestly wiU teU me? May God bless you, most 
 dear! 
 
 I am yours — ' Tota tua est 
 
 Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, Marcli 16, 1846.] 
 
 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 tried words, and if they fail, here- 
 after he needs not reflect that he did not even try — so with 
 me now, that loving you, Ba, with aU 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 im- 
 perfect 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? Tou 
 said lately love of you ' made you humble ' — just as if to 
 hinder me from saying that earnest truth ! — entirely true it 
 is, as I feel ever more convincingly. Tou 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. 
 
 I will rest on the confidence that you do so believe ! 
 You hiow by this that it is no shadowy image of you and 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 555 
 
 not you, wliicli having attached myself to in the first in- 
 stance, I afterward compelled my fancy to see reproduced, 
 so to speak, with tolerable exactness to the original idea, 
 in you, the dearest real you I am blessed with — you Jmow 
 what the eyes are to me, and the lips and the hair. And 
 I, for my part, know 7ww, while fresh from seeing you, 
 certainly know, whatever I may have said a short time since, 
 that you 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, towards 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. 
 
 I shall hear from you to-morrow — then, I will go out 
 early and get done with some calls, in the joy and con- 
 sciousness 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, in- 
 terpret all and forgive it and put it right — can such things 
 be cared for, expected, as you say? Then, Ba, my life 
 must be better . . with the closeness to help, and the ' find- 
 ing 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 affection for you, which would 
 sooner or later have to be placed on his list of component 
 graces; thxt I will dare start supply — the entire love you 
 could dream of is 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 — 
 
556 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNmG [Makch16 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, March 16, 1846.] 
 
 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 wiU hnow one day. 
 
 We understand each other too about the sofas and gild- 
 ing — 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 out of it, as I did reso- 
 lutely 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 Jioitse was ever seen ! ' 
 
 Mr. Kenyon must be merciful. Lilies are of all colours 
 in Palestine — one sort is particularized as white with a 
 dark blue spot and streak — the water lily, lotos, which I 
 think I meant, is blue altogether. 
 
 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 you think aU 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? 
 
 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 wiU reply to-morrow. Thursday is so far 
 away yet! 
 
 Bless you, my very own, only dearest ! 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 17, 1846.] 
 
 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 authori- 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 557 
 
 ties like your ^lian !) 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 me. Dearest dearest : I laugh, you 
 see, as usual, not to cry ! But deep down, deeper than the 
 Sirens go, deep underneath the tides, there, I bless and 
 love you with the voice that makes no sound. 
 
 Other human creatures (how often I do think it to my- 
 self!) 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, crashed 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 
 hear 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 sus- 
 taining blessings as well as stripes. Dearest — 
 
 For the rest I understand you perfectly — perfectly. It 
 was simply to your thoughts, 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 thought, that I spoke out mine. Tou 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 might as well — as diamonds and satin sofas 
 a la Chorley. Thoughts are something, and your thoughts 
 are something more. To be sure they are ! 
 
 Tou are better you say, which makes me happy of 
 
558 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING [March 17 
 
 course. And you will not make the ' better ' worse again 
 by doing wrong things — that 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, 
 ht 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 you to me . . remember . . just as a longer letter would. 
 But where, pray, did I say, and when, that ' everything 
 would end well?' Was that 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 that means ' ending well, ' depends 
 on your way of considering matters. I am seriously of 
 opinion nevertheless, that if ' the arm, ' you talk of, drops, 
 it wiU not be for weariness nor even for weakness, but be- 
 cause it is cut off at the shoulder. 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 shall. Do you doubt that, my only 
 beloved ! Ah, you know well — too luell, people would say 
 . . but I do notthink it ' too well ' myself, . , knowing you. 
 
 Your 
 Ba. 
 
 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 seci'et, remember. 
 
 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 suflScient comfort by a merchant's vessel 
 to the Mediterranean . . and might he drift about among 
 the Greek islands? 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 559 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 ' Out of window ' wotild be well, as I see the leap, if it 
 ended {so far as lam concerned) in the worst way imagin- 
 able — I would ' 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 was 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 la- 
 boriously into conjunction for my special sake to bring 
 it to pass, which were no slight honour, properly consid- 
 ered ! — And this is my 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 no chance 
 here .' I have gained enough for my life, I can only put in 
 peril the gaining more than enough. Tou 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 could do that. JSfow, 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 best, as you promise— dear, darling 
 
660 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNING [March 17 
 
 Ba ! — and I say, in my degree, with all the energy of my 
 nature, as you say, 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 abso- 
 lute ') — 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 wholly, my 
 Ba ! May God bless you — 
 
 Ever your own, E. 
 
 It would be easy for Mr. Buckingham to find a Mer- 
 chant-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 enormous 
 for an invalid — the one advantage is the solitariness of the 
 one passenger among all those rough new creatures, /like 
 it much, and soon get deep into their friendship, but an- 
 other 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 so, with the 
 five or six weeks' absolute rest of the mind's eyes, than 
 any other imaginable way, — except Balloon-travelling. 
 
 Do you think they meant Landor's ' Count Julian ' — 
 the ' subject of his tragedy ' sure enough, — and that he 
 was the friend of Southey ? So it struck me — 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAREETT 661 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 18, 1846.] 
 
 All well — we shall see. Only remember that it is not 
 my fault if I throw the double sixes, and if you, on [sc/me 
 sunshiny day, (a day too late to help yourself) stand face 
 to face with a milkwhite unicorn.]' 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 my- 
 self severely not long ago, for seeming to love your love 
 more than you. Let me tell you how I proved tliat, 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' — hut 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 Char- 
 lemagne'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 
 ' love your love more tJian you. ' There must be a mistake 
 in the calculation somewhere — a figure dropt. It would 
 be too bad for her ! 
 
 Tour 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 expen- 
 sive 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. 
 
 For Landor's ' Julian, ' oh no, I cannot fancy it to be 
 probable that those Parisians should know anything of 
 
 ' TThe words in tractets are struck out.T 
 Vol. I.— 36 ■■ 
 
562 THE LETTEES OF EOBEETBEOWNING [March 18 
 
 Landor, even by a mistake. Do you not suppose tliat 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 SheUey — 
 does it not? 
 
 Not a word of the head — what does that mean, I won- 
 der. 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 . . 
 
 Ba — Kegina. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, March 18, 1846.] 
 
 Indeed, dearest, j'ou shall not have last word 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 your 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, you clearly run 
 exactly the same risk, — must, — unless you mean to rejoice 
 in my sorrow ! So your chance is my chance ; my success 
 your success, you say, and my failiTre, your failure, will 
 you not say? Tou 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 Monday when we meet next ' ! — 
 
 whereat 
 
 . . as a goose 
 In death contracts his talons close, 
 
 as Hudibras sings — I clutched the letter convulsively — tiU 
 relief came. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 563 
 
 So till to-morrow — my all-beloved ! Bless you. I am 
 rather hazy in the head as Archer Gurney wiU 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 done — (done for). 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' 
 
 E. B. 
 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Friday. 
 [Post-mark, March 20, 1846.] 
 
 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. Ken- 
 yon 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 jou 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 vfiil tell you. The writer doesn't see anything ' in 
 Browning and Turner, ' she confesses — ' may 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 me ? Do you understand the fuU 
 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? 
 
 WiU you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a 
 
564 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWISTING [Maech 20 
 
 little about tlie ' 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 gam- 
 ing-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 you . . 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 happi- 
 ness you have given me, why still I am your debtor for the 
 gift . . now see ! Yet to bring you down into my ashes 
 . . that has been so intolerable a possibility to me from 
 the first. Well, perhaps I run more risk than you, under 
 that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself 
 again if you were unhappy. ' What had / 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 utermost sacrifice 
 and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any more — 
 not even for you ! You, for you . . is all I can ! 
 
 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 assur- 
 ance that the summer is within hearing. May God bless 
 you . . blessing us, beloved ! 
 
 Tour own 
 
 Ba. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 565 
 
 Mr. Poe liaa 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, Con- 
 stantinople and back, before we talk of him. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 [Post-mark, March 21, 1846.] 
 
 Dearest, — it just strikes me that I might by some 
 chance be kept in town this morning — (having to go to 
 Milnes' breakfast there)^ — so as not to find the note I ven- 
 ture 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 in- 
 contestable improvements they suggest. "When shall I tell 
 you more . . on Monday or Tuesday ? TlmfLmusfknow 
 —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^ or 12. 
 I was not very well yesterday, but to-day am much better 
 — and you, — I say how / am precisely to have a double 
 right to know all about you, dearest, in this snow and cold ! 
 How do you bear it? And Mr. K. spoke of ' that 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 ! 
 
 E. 
 E. B. B. to B. B. 
 
 [Post-mark, March 31, 1846.] 
 
 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 
 
566 THE LETTEES OE EOBEET BEOWNING [March 21 
 
 morning, what left me at two o'clock yesterday. But I 
 understand now the not hearing from you — ^you were not 
 well. Not well, not well . . that 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 per- 
 sisted in) by some serious illness — serious sorrow, — on 
 yours and my part. 
 
 As to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again 
 on Sunday — in which case, Monday wiU 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 
 probably 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 BBB'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. 
 
 I am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because 
 you were not well, and you must never write when you are 
 not well. But if you had been quite well, should I have 
 heard? — I doubt it. 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? 
 
 The Athenaeum 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 that? There is an implication that persons 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAEEETT 567 
 
 named in tlie poem wrote the poem themselves. And upon 
 loliom does the critic mean to fix the song of ' Constancy ' 
 . . the song which is ' not to puzzle anjbody ' who knows 
 the tunes of the song-writers ! The perfection of common- 
 place it seems to me. It might have been written by the 
 'poetBunn.' Dont you think so? 
 
 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. 
 
 Ever your 
 Ba. 
 
 R. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Sunday. 
 [Post-mark, March 23, 1846.] 
 
 Oh, my Ba — how you shall hear of this to-morrow — 
 that is all: / hate writing? See when presently I ojily 
 write to you daily, hourly if you let me? Just this ?iow — 
 I will be with you to-morrow in any case — I can go away 
 at once, if need be, or stay — if you like you can stop me by 
 sending a note for me to Moxon's before 10 o'clock — if any- 
 thing calls for such a measure. 
 
 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 
 cleverness, 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 for ever. I 
 have corrected it, cut it down, and it may stand and pledge 
 me to doing better hereafter. I say, too, in excuse to my- 
 self, unlike the woman at her spinning-wheel, ' He thought 
 of his flax on the whole far more than of his singing ' — 
 
568 THE LETTERS OF EOBEET BEOWNIRG [March 33 
 
 more of his life's sustainment, of dear, dear Ba lie hates 
 writing to, than of these wooden figures — no wonder all is 
 as it is? 
 
 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 knows 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 indi- 
 rectly — and I should think he also knows that all the sham 
 learning, notes &o., all that saves the book from the deep- 
 est deep of contempt, was contributed by Heraud {a 
 regular critic in the 'Athenceum '), 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 sup- 
 posed I, and the others named — Talf ourd, for instance — ^aee 
 his friends and helpers) ^ — he condescends io further 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 — so clever but so wicked ' ! — a kind of 
 Z>' Orsay's praise — while to the rest of his readers, a fev,- 
 depreciatory epithets — slight sneers convey his real senti- 
 ments, he trusts ! And this he does, just because Powell 
 buys an article of him once a quarter and would expect 
 notice. I think I hear Chorley — ' You know, I cannot 
 praise such a book — it is 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 his 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 E. B. 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BAERETT 669 
 
 E. B. B. to R. B. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [Post-mark, March 24, 1846.] 
 
 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 that was your fault, be it re- 
 membered, 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 hap- 
 pened, 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 flour- 
 ished 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 in- 
 structive. 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 
 
570 THE LETTERS OP EOBEET BEOWNING- [March 24 
 
 you 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. 
 
 Dearest, I persist in thinking that you ought not to be 
 too disdainful to explain your meaning in the Pomegran- 
 ates. Surely you might say in a word or two that, your 
 title having been doubted about (to your surprise, you 
 might say!), you refer the doubters to the Jewish priest's 
 robe, and the Eabbinical gloss . . f or 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 intelli- 
 gence of your readers, — and that 7ie 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 Eabbins and the distinctive significance, as 
 completely as he did. Then for Yasari, it is not the hand- 
 book of the whole world, however it may be Mrs. Jame- 
 son's. Now why should you be too proud to teach such 
 persons as only desire to be taught? I persist — I shall 
 tease you. 
 
 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 swear- 
 ing to me by all his gods that your name was mentioned 
 lately in the House of Commons — is 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. 
 Is it true? 
 
 Mr. Hornblower Gill is the author of a Hymn to Pas- 
 sion 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 
 
1846] A2^J) ELIZABETH BAERETT 571 
 
 man seems to have very good thoughts, . . but he writes 
 like a colder Cowley still . . no impulse, no heat for fus- 
 ing . . no inspiration, in fact. Though I have scarcely 
 done more than glance at his ' Passion week, ' and have 
 little right to give an opinion. 
 
 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 
 h(TTc^avot Mouaat 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 
 
 Ba. 
 
 B. B. to E. B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Afternoon. 
 [Post-mark, March 24, 1846.] 
 
 My own dearest, if you do — (for I confess to nothing of 
 the kind), but if you should 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 vrriting letters to you — then ! Why, we do 
 not even tallc 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 this way ! 
 
 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! 
 Tou must know, there is a chair (one of the kind called 
 gonddla-chairs by upholsterers — with an emphasized o) — 
 which occupies the precise place, stands just in the same 
 
572 THE LETTERS OF ROBEET BROWNING [Maech24 
 
 relation to this cliair I sit on now, that yours stands in and 
 occupies — to the left of the fire : and, how often, how al- 
 7vays I tarn in the dusk and see the dearest real Ba with me. 
 
 How entirely kind to take that trouble, give those sit- 
 tings for me ! Do you think the kindness has missed its 
 due effect? No, no, I am glad,— (fcnot<;tng what I now 
 hiow, — what you meant should be, and did all in your power 
 to prevent) that I have not received the picture, if anything 
 short of an adequate likeness. ' Nil nisi — te ! ' But I 
 have set my heart on seeing it — will you remember next 
 time, next Saturday? 
 
 I will leave off now. To-morrow, dearest, only dearest 
 Ba, I will write a longer letter — the clock stops it this after- 
 noon — 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 a letter, 
 indeed ! — but Ba's will come to-night — and I will be happy, 
 already am happy, expecting it. Bless you, my own love. 
 
 Ever your 
 
 K B. B. to B. B. 
 
 Tuesday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, March 25, 1846.] 
 
 Ah ; if I ' cfo ' . . if I ' should ' . . if I shall . . if I loill 
 . . if I must .... 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 ' confes- 
 sedly, ' avowedly,' (oh what words !) I shall not like it at all 
 — not for all the explanations . . and the sights in gondola 
 chairs, which the person seen is none the better for ! The 
 sldwlo-j 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 
 
ftu. li^ji/ujiMj^ "if^ iJi, M rruc ijjr kMiJ ,/«^ ^^ ^^'***' 
 
yiU, iUd/. hrn. , Uij(U- A. A«i^*WW/ *J"A*«7 W^ ,, 
 yifrU^ tMin*> ii«^ A*\t*jJil ftr'i tMj 1^ fuuS^ 
 
 ^{rt»-<^ 4-'f*y^ - '^***^ ;>^ )*^i<'- "t**4 '♦'^^ ^^ /* 
 
iTf^c^H^ J^l^ ?U-in^ hnJi !- tn*. /t,' , -9ft. f^ui^ k^ 
 
 
1846] AND ELIZABETH BARRETT 573 
 
 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 per- 
 fectly, on the contrary. Only do you try not to dislike 
 writing when you write, or not to write when you dislike 
 it . . that, I ask of you, dear dearest^ — and forgive me for 
 all this over-writing and teazing and vexing which is fool- 
 ish and womanish in the bad sense. It is a way of meet- 
 ing, . . 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 this 
 better, anyway, nor more characteristicall3^ 
 
 I wiU teU 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 ^'ISwXov iu 
 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 daunt- 
 lessly ' delivered ! ' 
 
 Your head aches, dearest. Mr. Moxon will have done 
 his worst, however, presently, and then you wiU be a little 
 better I do hope and trust — and the proofs, in the mean- 
 while, 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 anj' 
 of your works, not diffuse in any bad sense, but round, 
 copious, and another proof of that wonderful variety of 
 
574 THE LETTEES OF EOBEET BEOWNING [March 25 
 
 faculty wMcli is so striking in you, and wticii signalizes 
 itself both in the thought and in the medium of the thought. 
 Tou 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, foUows 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 ' golden- 
 Jiearted ' 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 — 
 
 Ba. 
 
 Say how you are. I shall be downstairs to-morrow if it 
 keeps warm. 
 
 Miss Thomson wants me to translate the Hector and 
 Andromache scene from the ' lUad ' for her book; and I 
 am going to try it. 
 
 END 01" THE FIRST VOLDMB 
 
o 
 
 L 
 
 
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