The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 53

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

Sunday Morning.

[Post-mark, February 9, 1846.]

My dearest--there are no words,--nor will be to-morrow, nor even in the Island--I know that! But I do love you.

My arms have been round you for many minutes since the last word--

I am quite well now--my other note will have told you when the change began--I think I took too violent a shower bath, with a notion of getting better in as little time as possible,--and the stimulus turned mere feverishness to headache. However, it was no sooner gone, in a degree, than a worse plague came. I sate thinking of you--but I knew my note would arrive at about four o'clock or a little later--and I thought the visit for the quarter of an hour would as effectually prevent to-morrow's meeting as if the whole two hours' blessing had been laid to heart--to-morrow I shall see you, Ba--my sweetest. But there are cold winds blowing to-day--how do you bear them, my Ba?

'_Care_' you, pray, pray, care for all _I_ care about--and be well, if G.o.d shall please, and bless me as no man ever was blessed! Now I kiss you, and will begin a new thinking of you--and end, and begin, going round and round in my circle of discovery,--_My_ lotos-blossom!

because they _loved_ the lotos, were lotos-lovers,--[Greek: lotou t'

erotes], as Euripides writes in the [Greek: Troades].

Your own

P.S. See those lines in the _Athenaeum_ on Pulci with Hunt's translation--all wrong--'_che non si sente_,' being--'that one does not _hear_ him' i.e. the ordinarily noisy fellow--and the rest, male, pessime! Sic verte, meo periculo, mi ocelle!

Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?

He just now yonder in the copse has '_gone it_' (_n_'and) Because across his mind there came a fancy; He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!

Now Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then read _this_ which I really told Hunt and got his praise for. Poor dear wonderful persecuted Pietro d'Abano wrote this quatrain on the people's plaguing him about his mathematical studies and wanting to burn him--he helped to build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still extant, and pa.s.ses for a conjuror in his country to this day--when there is a storm the mothers tell the children that he is in the air; his pact with the evil one obliged him to drink no _milk_; no natural human food! You know Tieck's novel about him? Well, this quatrain is said, I believe truly, to have been discovered in a well near Padua some fifty years ago.

Studiando le mie cifre, col compa.s.so Rilevo, che presto sar sotterra-- Perche del mio saper si fa gran chia.s.so, E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.

Affecting, is it not, in its simple, child like plaining? Now so, if I remember, I turned it--word for word--

Studying my ciphers, with the compa.s.s I reckon--who soon shall be below ground, Because of my lore they make great 'rumpus,'

And against me war makes each dull rogue round.

Say that you forgive me to-morrow!

[The following is in E.B.B.'s handwriting.]

With my compa.s.s I take up my ciphers, poor scholar; Who myself shall be taken down soon under the ground ...

Since the world at my learning roars out in its choler, And the blockheads have fought me all round.

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

Tuesday.

[Post-mark, February 10, 1846.]

Ever dearest, I have been possessed by your 'Luria' just as you would have me, and I should like you to understand, not simply how fine a conception the whole work seems to me, so developed, but how it has moved and affected me, without the ordinary means and dialect of pathos, by that calm att.i.tude of moral grandeur which it has--it is very fine. For the execution, _that_ too is worthily done--although I agree with you, that a little quickening and drawing in closer here and there, especially towards the close where there is no time to lose, the reader feels, would make the effect stronger--but you will look to it yourself--and such a conception _must_ come in thunder and lightning, as a chief G.o.d would--_must_ make its own way ... and will not let its poet go until he speaks it out to the ultimate syllable.

Domizia disappoints me rather. You might throw a flash more of light on her face--might you not? But what am I talking? I think it a magnificent work--a n.o.ble exposition of the ingrat.i.tude of men against their 'heroes,' and (what is peculiar) an _humane_ exposition ... not misanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things: for the return, the remorse, saves it--and the 'Too late' of the repentance and compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors and victim. We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward ...

'_That is done._' And now--surely you think well of the work as a whole? You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it--and of the _subtilty_ too, for it is subtle--too subtle perhaps for stage purposes, though as clear, ... as to expression ... as to medium ...

as 'bricks and mortar' ... shall I say?

'A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one.'

There is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine _he_ is, your Luria, when he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and half-disdain of Domizia. Ah--Domizia! would it hurt her to make her more a woman ... a little ... I wonder!

So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read _through_ ... since I have read the fifth twice over. And remember, please, that I am to read, besides, the 'Soul's Tragedy,' and that I shall dun you for it presently. Because you told me it was finished, otherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and that I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes by driving you into work. It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and heart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these productions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your head, and does all the harm on Sat.u.r.days and so many other days besides.

To-day--how are you? It _was_ right and just for me to write this time, after the two dear notes ... the one on Sat.u.r.day night which made me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and the other on Monday morning which took me unaware--such a note, _that_ was! Oh it _was_ right and just that I should not teaze you to send me another after those two others,--yet I was very near doing it--yet I should like infinitely to hear to-day how you are--unreasonable!--Well! you will write now--you will answer what I am writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely--Remember!

Above all, you will care for your head. I have been thinking since yesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as usual to take something ... hot wine and water, or coffee? Will you have coffee with me on Sat.u.r.day? 'Shunning the salt,' will you have the sugar? And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful as to diet--and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa affect your head--_for_ or _against_! Then you do not touch wine--and perhaps you ought. Surely something may be found or done to do you good. If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by this time and quite well perhaps.

This morning I had a letter from Miss Martineau and really read it to the end without thinking it too long, which is extraordinary for me just now, and scarcely ordinary in the letter, and indeed it is a delightful letter, as letters go, which are not yours! You shall take it with you on Sat.u.r.day to read, and you shall see that it is worth reading, and interesting for Wordsworth's sake and her own. Mr.

Kenyon has it now, because he presses on to have her letters, and I should not like to tell him that you had it first from me.... Also Sat.u.r.day will be time enough.

Oh--poor Mr. Horne! shall I tell you some of his offences? That he desires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till eight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the water-gla.s.ses at great dinners. That being in the midst of sportsmen--rural aristocrats--lords of soil--and all talking learnedly of pointers' noses and spaniels' ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a mocking paraphrase--'If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.' The wit is certainly doubtful!--That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he will go on Wednesday instead.--That he throws himself at full length with a gesture approaching to a 'summerset' on satin sofas. That he giggles. That he only _thinks_ he can talk. That his ignorance on all subjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw Percy's collection. That he asked _who_ wrote 'Drink to me only with thine eyes.' That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to speak at a public meeting, he said to a compa.s.sionate friend 'I got very well out of _that_.' That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he employed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for n.o.body's poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly ill.u.s.trious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he doesn't care '_which_ side.' That he is always talking of 'my shares,'

'my income,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this is _my_ 'lastly' and not Miss Mitford's, who is far from being out of breath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses--that he has gone out at half past five and 'proposed' to Miss M or N with fifty thousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report herself) came back to tea and the same evening 'fell in love' with Miss O or P ... with forty thousand--went away for a few months, and upon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of four blood horses--has a prospect now of a Miss R or S--with hounds, perhaps.

Too, too bad--isn't it? I would repeat none of it except to you--and as to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some, exaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a fine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the listener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all round him. Also, he rather 'wears his heart on his sleeve,' there is no denying--and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than other men. But for the base traffic of the affair--I do not believe a word. He is too generous--has too much real sensibility. I fought his battle, poor Orion. 'And so,' she said 'you believe it possible for a disinterested man to become really attached to two women, heiresses, on the same day?' I doubted the _fact_. And then she showed me a note, an autograph note from the poet, confessing the M or N part of the business--while Miss O or P confessed herself, said Miss Mitford. But I persisted in doubting, notwithstanding the lady's confessions, or convictions, as they might be. And just think of Mr. Horne not having tact enough to keep out of these mult.i.tudinous sc.r.a.pes, for those few days which on three separate occasions he paid Miss Mitford in a neighbourhood where all were strangers to him,--and never outstaying his week! He must have been _foolish_, read it all how we may.

And so am _I_, to write this 'personal talk' to you when you will not care for it--yet you asked me, and it may make you smile, though Wordsworth's tea-kettle outsings it all.

When your Monday letter came, I was reading the criticism on Hunt and his Italian poets, in the _Examiner_. How I liked to be pulled by the sleeve to your translations!--How I liked everything!--Pulci, Pietro ... and you, best!

Yet here's a naivete which I found in your letter! I will write it out that you may read it--

'However it' (the headache) 'was no sooner gone in a degree, than a worse plague came--_I sate thinking of you_.'

Very satisfactory _that_ is, and very clear.

May G.o.d bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of yourself. The cold makes me _languid_, as heat is apt to make everybody; but I am not unwell, and keep up the fire and the thoughts of you.

Your worse ... worst plague

Your own

BA.

I shall hear? yes! And admire my obedience in having written 'a long letter' _to_ the letter!

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

Wednesday Morning.

[Post-mark, February 11, 1846.]

My sweetest 'plague,' _did_ I really write that sentence so, without gloss or comment in close vicinity? I can hardly think it--but you know well, well where the real plague lay,--that I thought of you as thinking, in your infinite goodness, of untoward chances which had kept me from you--and if I did not dwell more particularly on that thinking of _yours_, which became as I say, in the knowledge of it, a plague when brought before me _with_ the thought of you,--if I pa.s.sed this slightly over it was for pure unaffected shame that I should take up the care and stop the 'reverie serene' of--ah, the rhyme _lets_ me say--'sweetest eyes were ever seen'--were _ever_ seen! And yourself confess, in the Sat.u.r.day's note, to having been 'unhappy for half an hour till' &c. &c.--and do not I feel _that_ here, and am not I plagued by it?

Well, having begun at the end of your letter, dearest, I will go back gently (that is backwards) and tell you I 'sate thinking' too, and with no greater comfort, on the cold yesterday. The pond before the window was frozen ('so as to bear sparrows' somebody said) and I knew you would feel it--'but you are not unwell'--really? thank G.o.d--and the month wears on. Beside I have got a rea.s.surance--you asked me once if I were superst.i.tious, I remember (as what do I forget that you say?). However that may be, yesterday morning as I turned to look for a book, an old fancy seized me to try the 'sortes' and dip into the first page of the first I chanced upon, for my fortune; I said 'what will be the event of my love for Her'--in so many words--and my book turned out to be--'Cerutti's Italian Grammar!'--a propitious source of information ... the best to be hoped, what could it prove but some a.s.surance that you were in the Dative Case, or I, not in the ablative absolute? I do protest that, with the knowledge of so many horrible pitfalls, or rather spring guns with wires on every bush ... such dreadful possibilities of stumbling on 'conditional moods,' 'imperfect tenses,' 'singular numbers,'--I should have been too glad to put up with the safe spot for the sole of my foot though no larger than afforded by such a word as 'Conjunction,' 'possessive p.r.o.noun--,'

secure so far from poor Tippet's catastrophe. Well, I ventured, and what did I find? _This_--which I copy from the book now--'_If we love in the other world as we do in this, I shall love thee to eternity_'--from 'Promiscuous Exercises,' to be translated into Italian, at the end.