The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 17

All is right, too--

Come, I WILL have my fault-finding 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 the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two lines of a legend that delighted my infancy, and now instruct my maturer years in pretty nearly all 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

R.B.

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

[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.]

Yes, I admit that it was stupid to read that word so wrong. I thought there was a mistake somewhere, but that it was _yours_, 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 ident.i.ty 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 understand 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 excess' 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 your poetry, if it isn't to be called 'impertinence,' isn't to be called 'kindness,' any more, ... _a fortiori_, as people say when they are sure of an argument. Now, will you try to understand?

And talking still 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-G.o.dlike indifference to your creatures though--your worlds, breathed away from you like soap bubbles, and dropping and breaking into russet portfolios un.o.bserved! Only a G.o.d 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 Fiddler,' as I forgot to tell you yesterday, is announced, you may see in any newspaper, as about to issue from the English press by Mary Howitt'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 drama-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, dramatic or otherwise, is 'nought'; but for the prose romances, and for 'Ernest Maltravers' above all, I must lift up my voice and cry. And I read the _Athenaeum_ about your Sir James Wylie who took you for an Italian....

'Poi vi dir Signor, che ne fu causa Ch' avio fatto al scriver debita pausa.'--

Ever your

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Friday Morning.

[Post-mark, August 15, 1845.]

Do you know, 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 repeatedly. 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 gallery 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 enthusiasm of an elderly German (we thought,--I and a cousin of mine)--whose whole body 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 glory 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 acc.u.mulation 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 with 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 Sand_ism_. 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 thing as Physiology. Then, that horrible Porpora:--if George Sand gives _him_ to a Consuelo for an absolute master, 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 fatherly rule of Frederic perfectly impertinent--he having a few claims upon the grat.i.tude of Prussia also, in his way, I believe! If the strong ones _will 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 tearings 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 killing his thousands after the fashion that moved your previous indignation. Now is that right, consequential--that is, _inferential_; logically deduced, going straight to the end--_manly_?

The accessories are not the Princ.i.p.al, the adjuncts--the essence, nor the ornamental incidents the book's self, so what matters it if the portraits are admirable, the descriptions eloquent, (eloquent, there it is--that is her characteristic--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 _that_, 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?

G.o.d bless you ever

R.B.

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

Sat.u.r.day.

[Post-mark, August 16, 1845.]

But what likeness is there between opposites; and what has 'M.

l'Italien' to do with the said 'elderly German'? See how little! For to bring your case into point, somebody 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 Venetian behind him! And there, you would have proved your a.n.a.logy!--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 impulses 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 _must_ tell you!) you talk of my 'correcting your verses'! My correcting your verses!!!--Now is _that_ a thing for you to say?--And do you really imagine that if I kept that happily 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 disqualifying and paralysing phrase it must be, of simple necessity? So it is _I_ who have reason to complain, ... it appears to _me_, ... and by no means _you_--and in your 'second consideration' 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 cla.s.sified as 'femme qui parle' ... she who is man and woman together, ... judging her by the standard of even that book in the n.o.bler 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 ... follow their own opinions into their obvious results--n.o.body, you know, ever thinks of doing such a thing: to pursue one's own inferences is to rush in where angels ... perhaps ... do _not_ 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 'Consuelo' is only 'half the orange'; and that when you complain of its not being a whole one, you overlook that hand which is holding to you the 'Comtesse de Rudolstadt' in three volumes! Not that I, who have read the whole, profess a full satisfaction about Albert and the rest--and Consuelo is made to be happy by a mere clap-trap at last: and Mme. Dudevant has her specialities,--in which, other women, I fancy, have neither part nor lot, ... even _here_!--Altogether, the book is a sort of rambling 'Odyssey,' a female 'Odyssey,' if you like, but full of beauty and n.o.bleness, 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 _that_ 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 _Athenaeum praises_ as 'respectable attainment in various walks of literature'--! _like_ the _Athenaeum_, 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 public teach _so_?--

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 good-bye until Tuesday, from

E.B.B.

_E.B.B. to R.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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 Wednesday 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 _bare possibility_. In great haste, signed and sealed this Sunday evening by

E.B.B.

_R.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 pa.s.sed your house to-day--with an Italian friend, from Rome, whom I must go about with a little on weariful sight seeing, so I shall earn Friday.