George has been properly ‘indoctrinated,’ and, we must hope, will do credit to my instructions. Just now ... just as I was writing ... he came in to say good-morning and good-night (he goes to chambers earlier than I receive visitors generally), and to ask with a smile, if I had ‘a message for my friend’ ... 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 complain continually. The great Law lime-kiln dries human souls all to one colour — and he is an industrious reader among law books and knows a good deal about them, I have heard from persons who can judge; but with a sacrifice of impulsiveness and liberty of spirit, which I 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 Garrow, I have seen face to face once or twice. She is very clever — very accomplished — with talents and tastes of various kinds — a musician and linguist, in most modern languages I believe — and a writer of fluent graceful melodious verses, ... you cannot say any more. At least I 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 modesty to admit besides that I may be wrong and he, right, all through. But ... ‘more intense than Sappho’! — more intense than intensity itself! — to think of 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. You see you are not better but worse. ‘Since you were in Italy’ — Then is it England that disagrees with you? and is it change away from England that you want? ... 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 sensations 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 appeared before; while on the other side (the sunny side of the way) I heard on that same yesterday, what made me glad as good news, a whole gospel of good news, and from you too who profess to say ‘less than nothing,’ and that was that ‘the times seemed longer to you’: — do you remember saying it? And it made me glad ... happy — perhaps too glad and happy — and surprised: yes, surprised! — for if you had told me (but you would not have told me) if you had let me guess ... just the contrary, ... ‘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 will, and you know it. I will not move, nor speak, nor breathe, so as willingly and consciously to touch, with one shade of wrong, that precious deposit of ‘heart and life’ ... which may yet be recalled.
And, so, may God bless you and your
E.B.B.
Remember 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.’ I fancy not. Helena should have been more ‘demonstrative’ than she appeared in Italy, to secure the ‘new modulation’ with Walter. But you will not think it a strong book, I am sure, with all the good and pure intention of it. The best character ... most life-like ... as conventional life goes ... seems to 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 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.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Friday Night.
[Post-mark, November 22, 1845.]
How good and kind to send me these books! (The letter I say nothing of, according to convention: if I wrote down ‘best and kindest’ ... oh, what poorest words!) I shall tell you all about ‘Pomfret,’ be sure. Chorley talked of it, as we walked homewards together last night, — modestly and well, and spoke of having given away two copies only ... to his mother one, and the other to — Miss Barrett, and ‘she seemed interested in the life of it, entered into his purpose in it,’ and I listened to it all, loving Chorley for his loveability which is considerable at other times, and saying to myself what might run better in the child’s couplet — ’Not more than others I deserve, Though God has given me more’! — Given me the letter which expresses surprise that I shall feel these blanks between the days when I see you longer and longer! So am I 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 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 England, 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 desiring to include you in myself, if that might be; to feel you in my very heart and hold you there for ever, through all chance and earthly changes!
There, I had better leave off; the words!
I was very glad to find myself with your brother yesterday; I like him very much and mean to get a friend in him — (to supply the loss of my friend ... Miss Barrett �
�� which is gone, the friendship, so gone!) But I did not ask after you because I heard Moxon do it. Now of Landor’s verses: I got a note from Forster yesterday telling me that he, too, had received a copy ... so that there is no injunction to be secret. So I got a copy for dear Mr. Kenyon, and, lo! what comes! I send the note to make you smile! I shall reply that I felt in duty bound to apprise you; as I did. You will observe that I go to that too facile gate of his on Tuesday, 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 quite gone; and the inconvenience, hard on its trace. You will write to me again, will you not? And be as brief as your heart lets you, to me who hoard up your words and get remote and imperfect ideas of what ... shall it be written?... anger at you could mean, when I see a line blotted out; a 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 Cipolla.’ See what is here, since you will not let me have only you to look at — this is Landor’s first opinion — expressed to Forster — see the date! and last of all, see me and know me, beloved! May God bless you!
E.B.B. to R.B.
Saturday.
[Post-mark, November 22, 1845.]
Mr. Kenyon came yesterday — and do you know when he took out those verses and spoke his preface and I understood what was to follow, I had a temptation from my familiar Devil not to say I had read them before — I had the temptation strong and clear. For he (Mr. K.) told me that your sister let him see them — .
But no — My ‘vade retro’ prevailed, and I spoke the truth and shamed the devil and surprised Mr. Kenyon besides, as I could observe. Not an observation did he make till he was just going away half an hour afterwards, and then he said rather dryly ... ‘And now may I ask how long ago it was when you first read these verses? — was it a fortnight ago?’ It was better, I think, that I should not have made a mystery of such a simple thing, ... and yet I felt half vexed with myself and with him besides. But the verses, — how he praised them! more than I thought of doing ... as verses — though there is beauty and music and all that ought to be. Do you see clearly now that the latter lines refer to the combination in you, — the qualities over and above those held in common with Chaucer? And I have heard this morning from two or three of the early readers of the Chronicle (I never care to see it till the evening) that the verses are there — so that my wishes have fulfilled themselves there at least — strangely, for wishes of mine ... which generally ‘go by contraries’ as the soothsayers declare of dreams. How kind of you to send me the fragment to Mr. Forster! and how I like to read it. Was the Hebrew yours 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 difficulty. Still, I was not sure, before your letter came, how it might be.
That you really are better is the best news of all — 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 beauty of those verses ... for that reason he could not help naming them 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 you ... you are so kind! Only that makes me think bitterly what I have thought before, but cannot write to-day.
It was good-natured 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 believe, and should, 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 fact’ of the ‘two days,’ is quite different from yours ... for I think directly, ‘So little’! so dreadfully little! What shallow earth for a deep root! What can be known of me in that time? ‘So 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 monumental brevity — and hic jacet at last
Your E.B.B.
R.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 well — but I must not quite lose the word I counted on.
So, 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 grow up into a complete Dodona-grove, — when the very rook, say farmers, hides and forgets whole navies of ship-wood one day to be, in his summer storing-journeys? But this shall do — I am not going to prove what 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 willing to give you mine, and desirous of any opportunity of serving you, benefiting you; I could not think the finding myself in a position to feel this, just this and no more, a sufficiently fortunate event ... but I must needs get up, or imitate, or ... what is it you fancy I do? ... an utterly distinct, unnecessary, inconsequential regard for you, which should, when it got too hard for shamming at the week’s end, — should simply spoil, in its explosion and departure, all the real and sufficing elements of an honest life-long attachment and affections! that I should do this, and think it a piece of kindness does....
Now, I’ll 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! If you give me what I beg, — shall I say next Tuesday ... when I leave you, I will not speak a word. If you do not, I will not think you unjust, for all my light words, but I will pray you to wait and remember me one day — when the power to deserve more may be greater ... never the will. God supplies all things: may he bless you, beloved! So I can but pray, kissing your hand.
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 different ways — and for some of the peculiarities that strike at first sight, C. himself gives a good reason to the enquirer on better acquaintance. For ‘Vulgarity’ — NO! But your kind brother will alter his view, I know, on further acquaintance ... and, — woe’s me — will find that ‘assumption’s’ pertest self would be troubled to exercise its quality at such a house as Mr. K.’s, where every symptom of a proper claim is met half way and helped onward far too readily.
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 blotting out — made it some four or five years ago, when I could read what I only guess at now, through my idle opening the hand and letting the caught bird go — but there used to be a real satisfaction to me in writing those grand Hebrew characters — the noble languages!
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 337
