The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 54

And now I reach Horne and his characteristics--of which I can tell you with confidence that they are grossly misrepresented where not altogether false--whether it proceed from inability to see what one may see, or disinclination, I cannot say. I know very little of Horne, but my one visit to him a few weeks ago would show the uncandidness of those charges: for instance, he talked a good deal about horses, meaning to ride in Ireland, and described very cleverly an old hunter he had hired once,--how it galloped and could not walk; also he propounded a theory of the true method of behaving in the saddle when a horse rears, which I besought him only to practise in fancy on the sofa, where he lay telling it. So much for professing his ignorance in that matter! On a sofa he does throw himself--but when thrown there, he can talk, with Miss Mitford's leave, admirably,--I never heard better stories than Horne's--some Spanish-American incidents of travel want printing--or have been printed, for aught I know. That he cares for n.o.body's poetry is _false_, he praises more unregardingly of his own retreat, more unprovidingly for his own fortune,--(do I speak clearly?)--less like a man who himself has written somewhat in the 'line' of the other man he is praising--which 'somewhat' has to be guarded in its interests, &c., less like the poor professional praise of the 'craft' than any other I ever met--instance after instance starting into my mind as I write. To his income I never heard him allude--unless one should so interpret a remark to me this last time we met, that he had been on some occasion put to inconvenience by somebody's withholding ten or twelve pounds due to him for an article, and promised in the confidence of getting them to a tradesman, which does not look like 'boasting of his income'! As for the heiresses--I don't believe one word of it, of the succession and transition and trafficking. Altogether, what miserable 'set-offs' to the achievement of an 'Orion,' a 'Marlowe,' a 'Delora'! Miss Martineau understands him better.

Now I come to myself and my health. I am quite well now--at all events, much better, just a little turning in the head--since you appeal to my sincerity. For the coffee--thank you, indeed thank you, but nothing after the '_oenomel_' and before half past six. _I_ know all about that song and its Greek original if Horne does not--and can tell you--, how truly...!

The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine-- But might I of Jove's nectar sup I would not change for thine! _No, no, no!_

And by the bye, I have misled you as my wont is, on the subject of wine, 'that I do not touch it'--not habitually, nor so as to feel the loss of it, that on a principle; but every now and then of course.

And now, 'Luria', so long as the parts cohere and the whole is discernible, all will be well yet. I shall not look at it, nor think of it, for a week or two, and then see what I have forgotten. Domizia is all wrong; I told you I knew that her special colour had faded,--it was but a bright line, and the more distinctly deep that it was so narrow. One of my half dozen words on my sc.r.a.p of paper 'pro memoria'

was, under the 'Act V.' '_she loves_'--to which I could not bring it, you see! Yet the play requires it still,--something may yet be effected, though.... I meant that she should propose to go to Pisa with him, and begin a new life. But there is no hurry--I suppose it is no use publishing much before Easter--I will try and remember what my whole character _did_ mean--it was, in two words, understood at the time by 'panther's-beauty'--on which hint I ought to have spoken! But the work grew cold, and you came between, and the sun put out the fire on the hearth _nec vult panthera domari_!

For the 'Soul's Tragedy'--_that_ will surprise you, I think. There is no trace of you there,--you have not put out the black face of _it_--it is all sneering and _disillusion_--and shall not be printed but burned if you say the word--now wait and see and then say! I will bring the first of the two parts next Sat.u.r.day.

And now, dearest, I am with you--and the other matters are forgotten already. G.o.d bless you, I am ever your own R. You will write to me I trust? And tell me how to bear the cold.

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

[Post-mark, February 12, 1846.]

Ah, the 'sortes'! Is it a double oracle--'swan and shadow'--do you think? or do my eyes see double, dazzled by the light of it? 'I shall love thee to eternity'--I _shall_.

And as for the wine, I did not indeed misunderstand you 'as my wont is,' because I understood simply that 'habitually' you abstained from wine, and I meant exactly that perhaps it would be better for your health to take it habitually. It _might_, you know--not that I pretend to advise. Only when you look so much too pale sometimes, it comes into one's thoughts that you ought not to live on cresses and cold water. Strong coffee, which is the nearest to a stimulant that I dare to take, as far as ordinary diet goes, will almost always deliver _me_ from the worst of headaches, but there is no likeness, no comparison.

And your 'quite well' means that dreadful 'turning' still ... still!

Now do not think any more of the Domizias, nor 'try to remember,'

which is the most wearing way of thinking. The more I read and read your 'Luria,' the grander it looks, and it will make its own road with all understanding men, you need not doubt, and still less need you try to make me uneasy about the harm I have done in 'coming between,' and all the rest of it. I wish never to do you greater harm than just _that_, and then with a white conscience 'I shall love thee to eternity!... dearest! You have made a golden work out of your 'golden-hearted Luria'--as once you called him to me, and I hold it in the highest admiration--_should_, if you were precisely nothing to me.

And still, the fifth act _rises_! That is certain. Nevertheless I seem to agree with you that your hand has vacillated in your Domizia. We do not know her with as full a light on her face, as the other persons--we do not see the _panther_,--no, certainly we do not--but you will do a very little for her which will be everything, after a time ... and I a.s.sure you that if you were to ask for the ma.n.u.script before, you should not have a page of it--_now_, you are only to rest.

What a work to rest upon! Do consider what a triumph it is! The more I read, the more I think of it, the greater it grows--and as to 'faded lines,' you never cut a pomegranate that was redder in the deep of it.

Also, no one can say 'This is not clearly written.' The people who are at 'words of one syllable' may be puzzled by you and Wordsworth together this time ... as far as the expression goes. Subtle thoughts you always must have, in and out of 'Sordello'--and the objectors would find even Plato (though his medium is as lucid as the water that ran beside the beautiful plane-tree!) a little difficult perhaps.

To-day Mr. Kenyon came, and do you know, he has made a beatific confusion between last Sat.u.r.day and next Sat.u.r.day, and said to me he had told Miss Thomson to mind to come on Friday if she wished to see me ... 'remembering' (he added) 'that Mr. Browning took _Sat.u.r.day_!!'

So I let him mistake the one week for the other--'Mr. Browning took Sat.u.r.day,' it was true, both ways. Well--and then he went on to tell me that he had heard from Mrs. Jameson who was at Brighton and unwell, and had written to say this and that to him, and to enquire besides--now, what do you think, she enquired besides? 'how you and ... Browning were' said Mr. Kenyon--I write his words. He is coming, perhaps to-morrow, or perhaps Sunday--Sat.u.r.day is to have a twofold safety. That is, if you are not ill again. Dearest, you will not think of coming if you are ill ... unwell even. I shall not be frightened next time, as I told you--I shall have the precedent. Before, I had to think! 'It has never happened _so_--there must be a cause--and if it is a very, very, bad cause, why no one will tell _me_ ... it will not seem _my_ concern'--_that_ was my thought on Sat.u.r.day. But another time ... only, if it is possible to keep well, do keep well, beloved, and think of me instead of Domizia, and let there be no other time for your suffering ... my waiting is nothing. I shall remember for the future that you may have the headache--and do you remember it too!

For Mr. Horne I take your testimony gladly and believingly. _She blots_ with her _eyes_ sometimes. She hates ... and loves, in extreme degrees. We have, once or twice or thrice, been on the border of mutual displeasure, on this very subject, for I grew really vexed to observe the trust on one side and the _dyspathy_ on the other--using the mildest of words. You see, he found himself, down in Berkshire, in quite a strange element of society,--he, an artist in his good and his evil,--and the people there, 'county families,' smoothly plumed in their conventions, and cla.s.sing the ringlets and the aboriginal way of using water-gla.s.ses among offences against the Moral Law. Then, meaning to be agreeable, or fascinating perhaps, made it twenty times worse. Writing in alb.u.ms about the graces, discoursing meditated impromptus at picnics, playing on the guitar in fancy dresses,--all these things which seemed to poor Orion as natural as his own stars I dare say, and just the things suited to the _genus_ poet, and to himself specifically,--were understood by the natives and their 'rural deities' to signify, that he intended to marry one half the county, and to run away with the other. But Miss Mitford should have known better--_she_ should. And she _would_ have known better, if she had liked him--for the liking could have been unmade by no such offences.

She is too fervent a friend--she can be. Generous too, she can be without an effort; and I have had much affection from her--and accuse myself for seeming to have less--but--

May G.o.d bless you!--I end in haste after this long lingering.

Your

BA.

Not unwell--_I_ am not! I forgot it, which proves how I am not.

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

Friday Morning.

[Post-mark, February 13, 1846.]

Two nights ago I read the 'Soul's Tragedy' once more, and though there were not a few points which still struck me as successful in design and execution, yet on the whole I came to a decided opinion, that it will be better to postpone the publication of it for the present. It is not a good ending, an auspicious wind-up of this series; subject-matter and style are alike unpopular even for the literary _grex_ that stands aloof from the purer _plebs_, and uses that privilege to display and parade an ignorance which the other is altogether unconscious of--so that, if 'Luria' is _clearish_, the 'Tragedy' would be an unnecessary troubling the waters. Whereas, if I printed it first in order, my readers, according to custom, would make the (comparatively) little they did not see into, a full excuse for shutting their eyes at the rest, and we may as well part friends, so as not to meet enemies. But, at bottom, I believe the proper objection is to the immediate, _first_ effect of the whole--its moral effect--which is dependent on the contrary supposition of its being really understood, in the main drift of it. Yet I don't know; for I wrote it with the intention of producing the best of all effects--perhaps the truth is, that I am tired, rather, and desirous of getting done, and 'Luria' will answer my purpose so far. Will not the best way be to reserve this unlucky play and in the event of a second edition--as Moxon seems to think such an apparition possible--might not this be quietly inserted?--in its place, too, for it was written two or three years ago. I have lost, of late, interest in dramatic writing, as you know, and, perhaps, occasion. And, dearest, I mean to take your advice and be quiet awhile and let my mind get used to its new medium of sight; seeing all things, as it does, through you: and then, let all I have done be the prelude and the real work begin. I felt it would be so before, and told you at the very beginning--do you remember? And you spoke of Io 'in the proem.'

How much more should follow now!

And if nothing follows, I have _you_.

I shall see you to-morrow and be happy. To-day--is it the weather or what?--something depresses me a little--to-morrow brings the remedy for it all. I don't know why I mention such a matter; except that I tell you everything without a notion of after-consequence; and because your dearest, dearest presence seems under any circ.u.mstances as if created just to help me _there_; if my spirits rise they fly to you; if they fall, they hold by you and cease falling--as now. Bless you, Ba--my own best blessing that you are! But a few hours and I am with you, beloved!

Your own

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

Sat.u.r.day Evening.

[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]

Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing to you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead ... which I might have done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both thoughts of 'next year,' as you suggested them:--because while you are with me I see only _you_, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of yours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so deep--so that there may be ever so many 'mores,' and no 'more' wonder of mine!--but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no 'more'

light nor speaking until Thursday, why _then_, that I do not see _you_ but _me_,--_then_ comes the reaction,--the natural lengthening of the shadows at sunset,--and _then_, the 'less, less, less' grows to seem as natural to my fate, as the 'more' seemed to your nature--I being I!

_Sunday._--Well!--you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth, over and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future, scarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never beyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the question which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your happiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in what I called the future--but the tops of the trees that looked towards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into the river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green again, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can it be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also the future never seemed to belong to me so little--never! It might appear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself sometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am--from the sort of anxiety which might be well connected with my own position _here_, and which is personal to myself. _That_ is all thrown behind--into the bushes--long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before.

Agitation comes from indecision--and _I_ was decided from the first hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really.

Now,--as the Euphuists used to say,--I am 'more thine than my own' ...

it is a literal truth--and my future belongs to you; if it was mine, it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if it was given ... beloved....

So you see!

Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather strange sympathy and dyspathy--the sympathy having concerned the genus _jilt_ (as vulgarly called) male and female--and the dyspathy--the whole cla.s.s of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what they call 'love' to what they call 'duty.' There are exceptional cases of course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with a little contempt to those latter proofs of strength--or weakness, as it may be:--people are not usually praised for giving up their religion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their 'holy things'--while believing them still to be religious and sacramental!

On the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is possible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women perhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the mind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and retreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth which is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most courageous for the truth's sake, and instead of blaming them I hold them in honour, for me, and always did and shall.

And while I write, you are 'very ill'--very ill!--how it looks, written down _so_! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had tossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask Wilson how _she_ thought you were looking, ... and she 'did not know'

... she 'had not observed' ... 'only certainly Mr. Browning ran up-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.'

Now promise me dearest, dearest--not to trifle with your health. Not to neglect yourself ... not to tire yourself ... and besides to take the advice of your medical friend as to diet and general treatment:--because there must be a wrong and a right in everything, and the right is very important under your circ.u.mstances ... if you have a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at night, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache--for the affection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just as if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy doing good--and could it _increase_ the evil?--mustard mixed with the water, remember. Everything approaching to _congestion_ is full of fear--I tremble to think of it--and I bring no remedy by this teazing neither! But you will not be 'wicked' nor 'unkind,' nor provoke the evil consciously--you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at nights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement of composition--you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you, and at intervals grow so frightened! Think _you_, that you are three times as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest,--because you are more than three times the larger planet--and because too, you have known other sources of light and happiness ... but I need not say this--and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day ...

may I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own health.

May G.o.d bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the 'Soul's Tragedy' should be written out, I can read _that_ perhaps, without drawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep off altogether for the present--and let it be as you incline. I do not speak of 'Luria.'

Your own

BA.

If it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should say, almost, Wednesday, instead of Thursday--I want to see you so much, and to see for myself about the looks and spirits, only it would not do if he found you here on Wednesday. Let him come to-morrow or on Tuesday, and Wednesday will be safe--shall we consider? what do you think?

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