Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  — 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 ‘this — 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.

  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

  R.B.

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Saturday.

  [Post-mark, October 6, 1845.]

  Tuesday is given up in full council. The thing is beyond doubting of, as George says and as you thought yesterday. And then George has it in his head to beguile the Duke of Palmella out of a smaller cabin, so that I might sail from the Thames on the twentieth — and whether he succeeds or not, I humbly confess that one of the chief advantages of the new plan if not the very chief (as I see it) is just in the delay.

  Your spring-song is full of beauty as you know very well — and ‘that’s the wise thrush,’ so characteristic of you (and of the thrush too) that I was sorely tempted to ask you to write it ‘twice over,’ ... and not send the first copy to Mary Hunter notwithstanding my promise to her. And now when you come to print these fragments, would it not be well if you were to stoop to the vulgarism of prefixing some word of introduction, as other people do, you know, ... a title ... a name? You perplex your readers often by casting yourself on their intelligence in these things — and although it is true that readers in general are stupid and can’t understand, it is still more true that they are lazy and won’t understand ... and they don’t catch your point of sight at first unless you think it worth while to push them by the shoulders and force them into the right place. Now these fragments ... you mean to print them with a line between ... and not one word at the top of it ... now don’t you! And then people will read

  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 observed how some of the very most beautiful of your lyrics have suffered just from your disdain of the usual tactics of writers in this one respect.

  And you are not better, still — you are worse instead of better ... are you not? Tell me — And what can you mean about ‘unimportance,’ when you were worse last week ... this expiring week ... than ever before, by your own confession? And now? — And your mother?

  Yes — 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 all this wind, to judge of it fairly.

  R.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 remain, 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 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!

  R.B.

  You do not ask me that ‘boon’ — why is that? — Besides, I have my own real boons to ask too, as you will inevitably find, and I shall perhaps get heart by your example.

  E.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 contrary from you: — and if anything happens to Wednesday you shall hear. Mr. Kenyon is in town for only two days, or three. I never could grumble against him, so good and kind as he is — but he may not come after all to-morrow — so it is not grudging the obolus to Belisarius, but the squandering of the last golden days at the bottom of the purse.

  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.

  You understand. Wednesday — if nothing to the contrary.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  12 — Wednesday.

  [Post-mark, October 8, 1845.]

  Well, dearest, at all events I get up with the assurance I shall see you, and go on till the fatal 11-1/4 p.m. believing in the same, and 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 inconscious obstacle 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 —

  Your own

  R.B.

  E.B.B. to R.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 would certainly be here to-morrow,’ Wednesday! And so you see what has happened to Wednesday! Moreover he may come besides on Thursday, ... I can answer for nothing. Only if I do not write and if you find Thursday admissible, will you come then? In the case of an obstacle, you shall hear. And it is not (in the meantime) my fault — now is it? I have been quite enough vexed about it, indeed.

  Did the Monday work work harm to the head, I wonder? I do fear so that you won’t get through those papers with impunity — especially if the plays are to come after ... though ever so ‘gently.’ And if you are to s
uffer, it would be right to tongue-tie that silver Bell, and leave the congregations to their selling of cabbages. Which is unphilanthropic of me perhaps, ... ω φιλτατε.

  Be sure that I shall be ‘bold’ when the time for going comes — and both bold and capable of the effort. I am desired to keep to the respirator and the cabin for a day or two, while the cold can reach us; and midway in the bay of Biscay some change of climate may be felt, they say. There is no sort of danger for me; except that I shall 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? I can tell 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-lambishness.’

  Then, on Thursday!... unless something happens to Thursday ... and I shall write in that case. And I trust to you (as always) to attend to your own convenience — just as you may trust to me to remember my own ‘boon.’ Ah — you are curious, I think! Which is scarcely wise of you — because it 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. Unguessable, I choose it to be.

  And now I feel as if I should not stay in England. Which is the difference between one five minutes and another. May God bless you.

  Ever yours,

  E.B.B.

  E.B.B. to R.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 curtain and was licensed to speak oracles: — and ever since I have been out of spirits ... oh, out of spirits — and must write myself back again, or try. After all he may be wrong like another — and I should tell you that he reasons altogether from the delay ... and that ‘the cabins will therefore be taken’ and the ‘circular bills’ out of reach! He said that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to ‘knout’ 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 gunpowder, and as if I held Guy Fawkes’s lantern in my right hand. And no: I shall not go. The obstacles will not be those of Mr. Kenyon’s finding — and what their precise character will be I do not see distinctly. Only that they will be sufficient, and thrown by one hand just where the wheel should turn, ... 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 evening or rather night visits of Papa’s — for they came sometimes at eleven, and sometimes at twelve — I will tell you that he used to sit and talk in them, and then 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 expressively significant. Not that I pretend to complain, nor to have reason to complain. One should not be grateful for kindness, only while it lasts: that 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 Coronâ ... concerning your bag even ... I should be tired soon — though peradventure not very much sooner than you who heard. But on the smooth ground of quiet conversation (particularly when three people don’t talk at once as my brothers do ... to say the least!) I last for a long while: — not to say that I have the pretension of being as good and inexhaustible a listener to your own speaking as you could find in the world. So please not to accuse me of being tired again. I can’t be tired, and won’t be tired, you see.

  And now, since I began to write this, there is a new evil and anxiety — a worse anxiety than any — for one of my brothers is ill; had been unwell for some days and we thought nothing of it, till to-day Saturday: and the doctors call it a fever of the typhoid character ... not typhus yet ... but we are very uneasy. You must not come on Wednesday if an infectious fever be in the house — 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.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  Sunday.

  [Post-mark, October 13, 1845].

  These are bad news, dearest — all bad, except the enduring 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 mistake of mere love and care ... but no such another mistake ought to be suffered, if you escape the effects of this. I will not cease to believe in a better event, till the very last, however, and it is a deep satisfaction that all has been made plain and straight up to this strange and sad interposition like a bar. You have done your part, at least — with all that forethought and counsel from friends and adequate judges of the case — so, if the bar will not move, you will consider — will you not, dearest? — where one may best encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and fine weather. Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Kenyon suggested, or elsewhere? Oh, these vain wishes ... the will here, and no means!

  My life is bound up with yours — my own, first and last love. What wonder if I feared to tire you — I who, knowing you as I do, admiring what is so admirable (let me speak), loving what must needs be loved, fain to learn what you only can teach; proud of so much, happy in so much of you; I, who, for all this, neither come to admire, nor feel proud, nor be taught, — but only, only to live with you and be by you — that is love — for I know the rest, as I say. I know those qualities are in you ... but at them I could get in so many ways.... I have your books, here are my letters you give me; you would answer my questions were I in Pisa — well, and it all would amount to nothing, infinitely much as I know it is; to nothing if I could not sit by you and see you.... I can stop at that, but not before. And it seems strange to me how little ... less than little I have laid open of my feelings, the nature of them to you — I smile to think how if all this while I had been acting with the profoundest policy in intention, so as to pledge myself to nothing I could not afterwards perform with the most perfect ease and security, I should have done not much unlike what I have done — to be sure, one word includes many or all ... but I have not said ... what I will not even now say ... you will know — 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 enquiries, that your poems continued to sell ‘singularly well’ — they would ‘end in bringing a clear profit,’ he said. I thought to catch him, and asked if they had done so ... ‘Oh; not at the beginnin
g ... it takes more time — he answered. On Thursday I saw Moxon — he spoke rather encouragingly of my own prospects. I send him a sheetful to-morrow, I believe, and we are ‘out’ on the 1st of next month. Tennyson, by the way, has got his pension, £200 per annum — by the other way, Moxon has bought the MSS. of Keats in the possession of Taylor the publisher, and is going to bring out a complete edition; which is pleasant to hear.

  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 arrive in Town at noon, should not prove satisfactory. So I calculated times, and found I could be at Paris to-morrow, and back again, 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 all right — so may it be with all worse apprehensions! What you fear, precisely that, never happens, as Napoleon observed and thereon grew bold. I had stipulated for an hour’s notice, if go I must — and that was to be wholly spent in writing to you — for in quiet consternation my mother cared for my carpet bag.