The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 45

I cannot write my feelings in this large writing, begun on such a scale for the Review's sake; and just now--there is no denying it, and spite of all I have been incredulous about--it does seem that the fact _is_ achieved and that I _do_ love you, plainly, surely, more than ever, more than any day in my life before. It is your secret, the why, the how; the experience is mine. What are you doing to me?--in the heart's heart.

Rest--dearest--bless you--

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

Sat.u.r.day.

[Post-mark, January 10, 1846.]

Kindest and dearest you are!--that is 'my secret' and for the others, I leave them to you!--only it is no secret that I should and must be glad to have the words you sent with the book,--which I should have seen at all events be sure, whether you had sent it or not. Should I not, do you think? And considering what the present generation of critics really is, the remarks on you may stand, although it is the dreariest impotency to complain of the want of flesh and blood and of human sympathy in general. Yet suffer them to say on--it is the stamp on the critical knife. There must be something eminently stupid, or farewell criticdom! And if anything more utterly untrue could be said than another, it is precisely that saying, which Mr. Mackay stands up to catch the reversion of! Do you indeed suppose that Heraud could have done this? I scarcely can believe it, though some things are said rightly as about the 'intellectuality,' and how you stand first by the brain,--which is as true as truth can be. Then, I _shall have 'Pauline' in a day or two_--yes, I shall and must, and _will_.

The 'Ballad Poems and Fancies,' the article calling itself by that name, seems indeed to be Mr. Chorley's, and is one of his very best papers, I think. There is to me a want of colour and thinness about his writings in general, with a grace and _savoir faire_ nevertheless, and always a rightness and purity of intention. Observe what he says of 'many-sidedness' seeming to trench on opinion and principle. That, he means for himself I know, for he has said to me that through having such largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of principle--yet 'many-sidedness' is certainly no word for him. The effect of general sympathies may be evolved both from an elastic fancy and from breadth of mind, and it seems to me that he rather _bends_ to a phase of humanity and literature than contains it--than comprehends it. Every part of a truth implies the whole; and to accept truth all round, does not mean the recognition of contradictory things: universal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but, on the contrary, sublimely consistent. A church tower may stand between the mountains and the sea, looking to either, and stand fast: but the willow-tree at the gable-end, blown now toward the north and now toward the south while its natural leaning is due east or west, is different altogether ... _as_ different as a willow-tree from a church tower.

Ah, what nonsense! There is only one truth for me all this time, while I talk about truth and truth. And do you know, when you have told me to think of you, I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so much, of thinking of only you--which _is_ too much, perhaps. Shall I tell you? it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever before to any woman what you are to me--the fulness must be in proportion, you know, to the vacancy ... and only _I_ know what was behind--the long wilderness _without_ the blossoming rose ... and the capacity for happiness, like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. Is it wonderful that I should stand as in a dream, and disbelieve--not _you_--but my own fate? Was ever any one taken suddenly from a lampless dungeon and placed upon the pinnacle of a mountain, without the head turning round and the heart turning faint, as mine do? And you love me _more_, you say?--Shall I thank you or G.o.d?

Both,--indeed--and there is no possible return from me to either of you! I thank you as the unworthy may ... and as we all thank G.o.d. How shall I ever prove what my heart is to you? How will you ever see it as I feel it? I ask myself in vain.

Have so much faith in me, my only beloved, as to use me simply for your own advantage and happiness, and to your own ends without a thought of any others--_that_ is all I could ask you with any disquiet as to the granting of it--May G.o.d bless you!--

Your

BA.

But you have the review _now_--surely?

The _Morning Chronicle_ attributes the authorship of 'Modern Poets'

(_our_ article) to Lord John Manners--so I hear this morning. I have not yet looked at the paper myself. The _Athenaeum_, still abominably dumb!--

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

Sat.u.r.day.

[Post-mark, January 10, 1846.]

This is _no_ letter--love,--I make haste to tell you--to-morrow I will write. For here has a friend been calling and consuming my very destined time, and every minute seemed the last that was to be; and an old, old friend he is, beside--so--you must understand my defection, when only this sc.r.a.p reaches you to-night! Ah, love,--you are my unutterable blessing,--I discover you, more of you, day by day,--hour by hour, I do think!--I am entirely yours,--one grat.i.tude, all my soul becomes when I see you over me as now--G.o.d bless my dear, dearest.

My 'Act Fourth' is done--but too roughly this time! I will tell you--

One kiss more, dearest!

Thanks for the Review.

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

Sunday.

[Post-mark, January 12, 1846.]

I have no words for you, my dearest,--I shall never have.

You are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said ...

that I must love you more than at first ... a little sign, and to be looked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows _can_ only be little, so very little now--and as the fine French Chemical a.n.a.lysts bring themselves to appreciate matter in its refined stages by _millionths_, so--! At first I only thought of being _happy_ in you,--in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours that must come--I shall grow old with you, and die with you--as far as I can look into the night I see the light with me. And surely with that provision of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed sense of security to the sunny middle of the day. I am in the full sunshine now; and _after_, all seems cared for,--is it too homely an ill.u.s.tration if I say the day's visit is not crossed by uncertainties as to the return through the wild country at nightfall?--Now Keats speaks of 'Beauty, that must _die_--and Joy whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding farewell!' And _who_ spoke of--looking up into the eyes and asking 'And _how long_ will you love us'?--There is a Beauty that will not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will love for ever!

And _I_--am to love no longer than I can. Well, dear--and when I _can_ no longer--you will not blame me? You will do only as ever, kindly and justly; hardly more. I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my fancy to such an experiment, and consider how _that_ is to happen, and what measures ought to be taken in the emergency--because in the 'universality of my sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one with my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a spectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis. There is no doubt I should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more fortunate human being. And I hope that because such a calamity does not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no humanity can be altogether exempt--just as G.o.d bids us ask for the continuance of the 'daily bread'!--'battle, murder and sudden death'

lie behind doubtless. I repeat, and perhaps in so doing only give one more example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we bestow in another's case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our own, ... that I only contemplate the _possibility_ you make me recognize, with pity, and fear ... no anger at all; and imprecations of vengeance, _for what_? Observe, I only speak of cases _possible_; of sudden impotency of mind; that _is_ possible--there _are_ other ways of '_changing_,' 'ceasing to love' &c. which it is safest not to think of nor believe in. A man _may_ never leave his writing desk without seeing safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs the disposal of his papers in the event of his reason suddenly leaving him--or he may never go out into the street without a card in his pocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up in an apoplectic fit--but if he once begins to fear he is growing a gla.s.s bottle, and, _so_, liable to be smashed,--do you see? And now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba--see no more--see what I _am_, what G.o.d in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as I, received already so much; much, past expression! It is but--if you will so please--at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my sake; but you _will_ be as sure of me _one_ day as I can be now of myself--and why not _now_ be sure? See, love--a year is gone by--we were in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter 'Do not say I do not tire you' (by writing)--'_I am sure I do_.' A year has gone by--_Did you tire me then?_ _Now_, you tell me what is told; for my sake, sweet, let the few years go by; we are married, and my arms are round you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, '_Were you not_ to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy behind all joys, a life added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the possible gifts of G.o.d on this earth, for which I seemed to have lived; which accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what they can; what, it is very likely, they esteem more--for why should my eye be evil because G.o.d's is good; why should I grudge that, giving them, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the inferior good and belief in its worth? I should have wished _that_ further concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their sakes--but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only tribute of mere grat.i.tude which is in my power to pay. Hear this said _now before_ the few years; and believe in it _now for then_, dearest!

Must you see 'Pauline'? At least then let me wait a few days; to correct the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the history of it; what is necessary you should know before you see it.

That article I suppose to be by Heraud--about two thirds--and the rest, or a little less, by that Mr. Powell--whose unimaginable, impudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the 'Story from Boccaccio'--of which the _words_ quoted were _his_, I am sure--as sure as that he knows not whether Boccaccio lived before or after Shakspeare, whether Florence or Rome be the more northern city,--one word of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio's in particular.

When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a _buyer_ of other men's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he _bought_ two modernisations of Chaucer--'Ugolino' and another story from Leigh Hunt--and one, 'Sir Thopas' from Horne, and printed them as his own, as I learned only last week. He paid me extravagant court and, seeing no harm in the mere folly of the man, I was on good terms with him, till ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of mine who had written an article for the Review--(which is as good as _his_, he being a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing the voices of his co-mates in council)--well, he insulted my friend, who had written that article at my special solicitation, and did all he could to avoid paying the price of it--Why?--Because the poor creature had actually taken the article to the Editor _as one by his friend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell the aforesaid_,--cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes of Printer and Publisher! Now I was away all this time in Italy or he would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence.

And my friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of 'practice,' in the American sense, held his peace and went without his 'honorarium.' But on my return, I enquired, and made him make a proper application, which Mr. Powell treated with all the insolence in the world--because, as the event showed, the having to write a cheque for 'the Author of _the_ Article'--that author's name _not_ being Talfourd's ... _there_ was certain disgrace! Since then (ten months ago) I have never seen him--and he accuses _himself_, observe, of 'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'--one as much as the other!

And now why do I tell you this, all of it? Ah,--now you shall hear!

Because, it has often been in my mind to ask you what _you_ know of this Mr. Powell, or ever knew. For he, (being profoundly versed in every sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me, and the rest of his acquaintance) he told me long ago, 'he used to correspond with you, and that he quarrelled with you'--which I supposed to mean that he began by sending you his books (as with one and everybody) and that, in return to your note of acknowledgment, he had chosen to write again, and perhaps, again--is it so? Do not write one word in answer to me--the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought not to have a place in your letters--and _that way_ he would get near to me again; near indeed this time!--So _tell_ me, in a word--or do not tell me.

How I never say what I sit down to say! How saying the little makes me want to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as a thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and commentaries; all is of importance to me--every breath you breathe, every little fact (like this) you are to know!

I was out last night--to see the rest of Frank Talfourd's theatricals; and met d.i.c.kens and his set--so my evenings go away! If I do not bring the _Act_ you must forgive me--yet I shall, I think; the roughness matters little in this stage. Chorley says very truly that a tragedy implies as much power _kept back_ as brought out--very true that is. I do not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied--as was to be but expected--with the effect of this last--the _shelve_ of the hill, whence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it, so that at the very last you may pa.s.s off into a plain and so away--not come to a stop like your horse against a church wall. It is all in long speeches--the _action, proper_, is in them--they are no descriptions, or amplifications--but here, in a drama of this kind, all the _events_, (and interest), take place in the _minds_ of the actors ...

somewhat like 'Paracelsus' in that respect. You know, or don't know, that the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I thought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt, spasmodic writing--they will find some fault with this, of course.

How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing now here now there--precisely! I wish he minded the _Athenaeum_, its silence or eloquence, no more nor less than I--but he goes on painfully plying me with invitation after invitation, only to show me, I feel confident, that _he_ has no part nor lot in the matter: I have _two_ kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Sat.u.r.day. See the absurd position of us both; he asks more of my presence than he can want, just to show his own kind feeling, of which I do not doubt; and I must try and accept more hospitality than suits me, only to prove my belief in that same! For myself--if I have vanity which such Journals can raise; would the praise of them raise it, they who praised Mr. Mackay's own, own 'Dead Pan,' quite his own, the other day?--By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other evening that the gentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ... 'singularly like Schiller's; _considering that Mr. M. had never_ seen it!' I am told he writes for the _Athenaeum_, but don't know. Would that sort of praise be flattering, or his holding the tongue--which Forster, deep in the mysteries of the craft, corroborated my own notion about--as pure willingness to hurt, and confessed impotence and little clever spite, and enforced sense of what may be safe at the last? You shall see they will not notice--unless a fresh publication alters the circ.u.mstances--until some seven or eight months--as before; and then they _will_ notice, and _praise_, and tell anybody who cares to enquire, '_So_ we noticed the work.' So do not you go expecting justice or injustice till I tell you. It answers me to be found writing so, so anxious to prove I understand the laws of the game, when that game is only 'Thimble-rig' and for prizes of gingerbread-nuts--Prize or no prize, Mr. Dilke _does_ shift the pea, and so did from the beginning--as Charles Lamb's pleasant _sobriquet_ (Mr. _Bilk_, he would have it) testifies. Still he behaved kindly to that poor Frances Brown--let us forget him.

And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer--I am with you again and out of them all--there, _here_, in my arms, is my _proved palpable success_! My life, my poetry, gained nothing, oh no!--but this found them, and blessed them. On Tuesday I shall see you, dearest--am much better; well to-day--are you well--or 'scarcely to be called an invalid'? Oh, when I _have_ you, am by you--

Bless you, dearest--And be very sure you have your wish about the length of the week--still Tuesday must come! And with it your own, happy, grateful

R.B.

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

Tuesday Night.

[Post-mark, January 14, 1846.]

Ah Mr. Kenyon!--how he vexed me to-day. To keep away all the ten days before, and to come just at the wrong time after all! It was better for you, I suppose--believe--to go with him down-stairs--yes, it certainly was better: it was disagreeable enough to be very wise! Yet I, being addicted to every sort of superst.i.tion turning to melancholy, did hate so breaking off in the middle of that black thread ... (do you remember what we were talking of when they opened the door?) that I was on the point of saying 'Stay one moment,' which I should have repented afterwards for the best of good reasons. Oh, I _should_ have liked to have 'fastened off' that black thread, and taken one st.i.tch with a blue or a green one!

You do not remember what we were talking of? what _you_, rather, were talking of? And what _I_ remember, at least, because it is exactly the most unkind and hard thing you ever said to me--ever dearest, so I remember it by that sign! That you should say such a thing to me--!

think what it was, for indeed I will not write it down here--it would be worse than Mr. Powell! Only the foolishness of it (I mean, the foolishness of it alone) saves it, smooths it to a degree!--the foolishness being the same as if you asked a man where he would walk when he lost his head. Why, if you had asked St. Denis _beforehand_, he would have thought it a foolish question.

And you!--you, who talk so finely of never, never doubting; of being such an example in the way of believing and trusting--it appears, after all, that you have an imagination apprehensive (or comprehensive) of 'gla.s.s bottles' like other sublunary creatures, and worse than some of them. For mark, that I never went any farther than to the stone-wall hypothesis of your forgetting me!--_I_ always stopped there--and never climbed, to the top of it over the broken-bottle fortification, to see which way you meant to walk afterwards. And you, to ask me so coolly--think what you asked me.

That you should have the heart to ask such a question!

And the reason--! and it could seem a reasonable matter of doubt to you whether I would go to the south for my health's sake!--And I answered quite a common 'no' I believe--for you bewildered me for the moment--and I have had tears in my eyes two or three times since, just through thinking back of it all ... of your asking me such questions.

Now did I not tell you when I first knew you, that I was leaning out of the window? True, _that_ was--I was tired of living ...

unaffectedly tired. All I cared to live for was to do better some of the work which, after all, was out of myself, and which I had to reach across to do. But I told you. Then, last year, for duty's sake I would have _consented_ to go to Italy! but if you really fancy that I would have struggled in the face of all that difficulty--or struggled, indeed, anywise, to compa.s.s such an object as _that_--except for the motive of your caring for it and me--why you know nothing of me after all--nothing! And now, take away the motive, and I am where I was--leaning out of the window again. To put it in plainer words (as you really require information), I should let them do what they liked to me till I was dead--only I _wouldn't go to Italy_--if anybody proposed Italy out of contradiction. In the meantime I do entreat you never to talk of such a thing to me any more.

You know, if you were to leave me by your choice and for your happiness, it would be another thing. It would be very lawful to talk of _that_.