Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  To tell you to ‘forget me when forgetting seemed happiest for you,’ ... (was it not that, I said?) proved more affection than might go in smoother words.... I could prove the truth of that 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. You stand in between me and not merely the living who stood closest, but between me and the closer graves, ... and I reproach myself for this sometimes, and, so, ask you not to blame me for a different thing.

  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 between two duties, I feel, ... since I am yours, while I am of any worth to you at all. For the plan of the sealed letter, it would correct no evil, — ah, you do not see, you do not understand. The danger does not come from the side to which a reason may go. Only one person holds the thunder — and I shall be thundered at; I shall not be reasoned with — it is impossible. I could tell you some dreary chronicles made for laughing and crying over; and you know that if I once thought I might be loved enough to be spared above others, I cannot think so now. In the meanwhile we need not for the present be afraid. Let there be ever so many suspectors, there will be no informers. I suspect the suspectors, but the informers are out of the world, I am very sure: — and then, the one person, by a curious anomaly, never draws an inference of this order, until the bare blade of it is thrust palpably into his hand, point outwards. So it has been in other cases than ours — and so it is, at this moment in the house, with others than ourselves.

  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 — (will you, again?) — that it was all a mistake and you were only calling for your boots! Well, if you said that, 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 Independent 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 till the turn comes for crying. Poor Henrietta has suffered silently, with that softest of possible natures, which hers is indeed; beginning with implicit obedience, and ending with something as unlike it as possible: but, you see, where money is wanted, and where the dependence is total — see! And when once, in the case of the one dearest to me; when just at the last he was involved in the same grief, and I attempted to make over my advantages to him; (it could be no sacrifice, you know — I did not want the money, and could buy nothing with it so good as his happiness, — ) why then, my hands were seized and tied — and then and there, in the midst of the trouble, came the end of all! I tell you all this, just to make you understand a little. Did I not tell you before? But there is no danger at present — and why ruffle this present with disquieting thoughts? Why not leave that future to itself? For me, I sit in the track of the avalanche quite calmly ... so calmly as to surprise myself at intervals — and yet I know the reason of the calmness well.

  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 winter to its own peace. If I should be ill again you will be reasonable and we both must submit to God’s necessity. Not, you know, that I have the least intention of being ill, if I can help it — and in the case of a tolerably mild winter, and with all this strength to use, there are probabilities for me — and then I have sunshine from 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 all this wonder and gratitude? If the devotion of the remainder of my life could prove that I hear, ... would it be proof enough? Proof enough perhaps — but not gift enough.

  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 it was and trial, when he died a few years ago in Jamaica, proving by his last act that I was unforgotten. And now I remember how he once said to me: ‘Do you beware of ever loving! — If you do, you will not do it half: it will be for life and death.’

  So I put the hair into his locket, which I wear habitually, and which never had hair before — the natural use of it being for perfume: — and this is the best perfume for all hours, besides the completing of a prophecy.

  Your

  E.B.B.

  R.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 intentional mischief in that jeweller’s management of the ring. The divided gold must have been exposed to fire — heated thoroughly, perhaps, — and what became of the contents then! Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of course. My next act is just done — that is, 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 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

  R.B.

  E.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 know 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 distinctly (I did not — remember!), he might take the Wednesday’s visit to be the substitute for rather than the successor of Thursday’s: and in that case, why not write
a word to him yourself to propose dining with him as he suggested? He really wishes to see you — of that, I am sure. But you will know what is best to do, and he may come here to-morrow perhaps, and ask a whole set of questions about you; so my right hand may forget its cunning for any good it does. Only don’t send messages by me, please!

  How happy I am with your letter to-night.

  When I had sent away my last letter I began to remember, and could not help smiling to do so, that I had totally forgotten the great subject of my ‘fame,’ and the oath you administered about it — totally! Now how do you read that omen? If I forget myself, who is to remember me, do you think? — except you? — which brings me where I would stay. Yes — ’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, and do mean to behave well and be obedient. Your wish would be enough, even if there could be likelihood without it of my doing nothing ever again. Oh, certainly I have been idle — it comes of lotus-eating — and, besides, of sitting too long in the sun. Yet ‘idle’ may not be the word! silent I have been, through too many thoughts to speak just 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 walking straight on ... on ... furlong after furlong ... dreary day after dreary day, ... one may come to the end of the sand and within sight of the fountain: — there is nothing miraculous in 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.

  E.B.B. to R.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 inference is that he will come to-morrow — in which case you will be convicted of not wishing to be with him perhaps. So ... would it not be advisable for you to call at his door for a moment — and before you come here? Think of it. You know it would not do to vex him — would it?

  Your

  E.B.B.

  R.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 there 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.

  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-mark into a ‘stain’ in that perfectly beautiful triplet — nor am I to be indifferent to his good word for myself (though not very happily connected with the criticism on the epithet in that ‘Yorkshire Tragedy’ — which has better things, by the way — seeing that ‘white boy,’ in old language, meant just ‘good boy,’ a general epithet, as Johnson notices in the life of Dryden, whom the schoolmaster Busby was used to class with his ‘white boys’ — this is hypercriticism, however). But these American books should not be reprinted here — one asks, what and where is the class to which they address themselves? for, no doubt, we have our congregations of ignoramuses that enjoy the profoundest ignorance imaginable on the subjects treated of; but 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. Always to be found, of spirits instructed up to a certain height and there resting — vines that run up a prop and there tangle and grow to a knot — which want supplying with fresh poles; so the provident man brings his bundle into the grounds, and sticks them in laterally or a-top of the others, as the case requires, and all the old stocks go on growing again — but here, with us, whoever wanted Chaucer, or Chapman, or Ford, got him long ago — what else have Lamb, and Coleridge, and Hazlitt and Hunt and so on to the end of their generations ... what else been doing this many a year? What one passage of all these, cited with the very air of a Columbus, but has been known to all who know anything of poetry this many, many a year? The others, who don’t know anything, are the stocks that have got to shoot, 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 Coleridge, then by Lamb and Hazlitt, then worked to death by Hunt, who printed them entire and quoted them to pieces again, in every periodical he was ever engaged upon; and yet after all, here ‘Philip’ — ’must read’ (out of a roll of dropping papers with yellow ink tracings, so old!) something at which ‘John’ claps his hands and says ‘Really — that these ancients should own so much wit &c.’! The 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 bearing a still-accumulating weight of tokens of gallantry, and none the better for every fresh pushing and shoving and pulling and hauling — till, at the bottom of the room —

  To which Mr. Lowell might say, that — No, I will say the true thing against myself — and it is, that when I turn from what is in my mind, and determine to write about anybody’s book to avoid writing that I love and love and love again my own, dearest love — because of the cuckoo-song of it, — then, 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 before 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 will 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 sure letter in return, with the invitation &c., as if I had asked for it! I had perhaps better call o
n 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!

  R.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 you! 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 sometimes that, if I considered myself wholly, I should choose to die this winter — now — before I had disappointed you in anything. But because you are better and dearer and more to be considered than I, I do 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 yesterday — 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 complainingly, I am sure (I can thank God for most affectionate friends!) not complainingly, yet mournfully and in profound conviction — those words — ’jamais je n’ai pas été aimée comme j’aime.’ The capacity of loving is the largest of my powers I think — I thought so before knowing you — and one form of feeling. And although any woman might love you — every woman, — with understanding enough to discern you by — (oh, do not fancy that I am unduly magnifying mine office) yet I persist in persuading myself that! Because I have the capacity, as I said — and besides I owe more to you than others could, it seems to me: let me boast of it. To many, you might be better than all things while one of all things: to me you are instead of all — to many, a crowning happiness — to me, the happiness itself. From out of the deep dark pits men see the stars more gloriously — and de profundis amavi —