The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 10

The sun shines so that n.o.body dares complain of the east wind--and indeed I am better altogether. May G.o.d bless you, my dear friend.

E.B.B.

_R.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 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 uselessness of such jealousy, and am for loosing and letting it go, it may be cramped possibly. Your 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. 'Reflection' is exactly what it names itself--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 tell anybody how to make melodious verses--let him do it therefore--it should be exacted of all writers.

You 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 circ.u.mstanced 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 quant.i.ties 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 'Luna,' 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 will 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?

I thank G.o.d 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_ better--look so and speak so! G.o.d bless you.

R.B.

You 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 R.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 'Oth.e.l.lo' 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 l'homme appelle inspiration, je l'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 a.n.a.lyse the mental process in question, is one of the proofs of the fact of inspiration?--as the G.o.ds were known of old by not being seen to move their feet,--coming and going in an equal sweep of radiance.--And still more wonderful than the first transient great light you speak of, ... and far beyond any work of _re_flection, except in the pure a.n.a.lytical 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 fullness and clearness, and an intense trust in the truth of them which you have not in any sunshine of noon (called _real_!) but which you have _then_ ... and struggle to communicate:--an ineffectual struggle with most writers (oh, how ineffectual!) and when effectual, issuing in the 'Pippa Pa.s.ses,' and other master-pieces of the world.

You will tell me what you mean exactly by being jealous of your own music? You 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--because _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 uncomfortably, 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 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_ ... will 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.

_R.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 respectable ... I should certainly grow instructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if deprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I shall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am thinking all the while, 'now I will 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 miserably cold again--Will you tell me, at your own time?

G.o.d bless you, my dear friend.

R.B.

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

Thursday Evening.

[Post-mark, June 20, 1845.]

If on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleasure to cultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect your desire--and indeed the point of the deficiency in question being far above my sight I am not qualified either to deny or a.s.sert 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--inasmuch as nothing does humble anybody so much as being lifted up too high.

You 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 be very strange (without that) if _I_ who was born a hero worshipper and have so continued, and who always recognised 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 complain 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? suspicious at least of suspiciousness?

_R.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 flowers with, and write you other letters than these--quite, quite others, I feel--though I am far from going to imagine, even for a moment, what might be the precise prodigy--like the notable Son of Zeus, that _was_ 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 Wednesday ... though I hope to do more than that ... you will know exactly why it happens. I will finish and transcribe the 'Flight of the d.u.c.h.ess' 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

R.B.

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