The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 12

Or, write, as last night, if needs be: Monday, Tuesday is not so long to wait. Will you write?

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

Friday Evening.

[Post-mark, June 28, 1845.]

You are very kind and always--but really _that_ does not seem a good reason against your coming to-morrow--so come, if it should not rain.

If it rains, it _concludes_ for Monday ... or Tuesday; whichever may be clear of rain. I was tired on Wednesday by the confounding confusion of more voices than usual in this room; but the effect pa.s.sed off, and though Miss Mitford was with me for hours yesterday I am not unwell to-day. And pray speak _bona verba_ about the awful things which are possible between this now and Wednesday. You continue to be better, I do hope? I am forced to the brevity you see, by the post on one side, and my friends on the other, who have so long overstayed the coming of your note--but it is enough to a.s.sure you that you will do no harm by coming--only give pleasure.

Ever yours, my dear friend,

E.B.B.

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

Monday.

[June 30, 1845.]

I send back the prize poems which have been kept far too long even if I do not make excuses for the keeping--but our sins are not always to be measured by our repentance for them. Then I am well enough this morning to have thought of going out till they told me it was not at all a right day for it ... too windy ... soft and delightful as the air seems to be--particularly after yesterday, when we had some winter back again in an episode. And the roses do not die; which is quite magnanimous of them considering their reverses; and their buds are coming out in most exemplary resignation--like birds singing in a cage. Now that the windows may be open, the flowers take heart to live a little in this room.

And think of my forgetting to tell you on Sat.u.r.day that I had known of a letter being received by somebody from Miss Martineau, who is at Ambleside at this time and so entranced with the lakes and mountains as to be dreaming of taking or making a house among them, to live in for the rest of her life. Mrs. Trollope, you may have heard, had something of the same nympholepsy--no, her daughter was 'settled' in the neighbourhood--_that_ is the more likely reason for Mrs. Trollope!

and the spirits of the hills conspired against her the first winter and almost slew her with a fog and drove her away to your Italy where the Oreadocracy has gentler manners. And Miss Martineau is practising mesmerism and miracles on all sides she says, and counts on Archbishop Whately as a new adherent. I even fancy that he has been to see her in the character of a convert. All this from Mr. Kenyon.

There's a strange wild book called the Autobiography of Heinrich Stilling ... one of those true devout deep-hearted Germans who believe everything, and so are nearer the truth, I am sure, than the wise who believe nothing; but rather over-German sometimes, and redolent of sauerkraut--and _he_ gives a tradition ... somewhere between mesmerism and mysticism, ... of a little spirit with gold s...o...b..ckles, who was his familiar spirit and appeared only in the suns.h.i.+ne I think ...

mottling it over with its feet, perhaps, as a child might snow. Take away the s...o...b..ckles and I believe in the little spirit--don't _you_?

But these English mesmerists make the s...o...b..ckles quite conspicuous and insist on them broadly; and the Archbishops Whately may be drawn by _them_ (who can tell?) more than by the little spirit itself. How is your head to-day? now really, and nothing extenuating? I will not ask of poems, till the 'quite well' is _authentic_. May G.o.d bless you always! my dear friend!

E.B.B.

After all the book must go another day. I live in chaos do you know?

and I am too hurried at this moment ... yes it is here.

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

Tuesday Morning.

How are you--may I hope to hear soon?

I don't know exactly what possessed me to set my next day so far off as Sat.u.r.day--as it was said, however, so let it be. And I will bring the rest of the 'd.u.c.h.ess'--four or five hundred lines,--'heu, herba mala crescit'--(as I once saw mournfully pencilled on a white wall at Asolo)--but will you tell me if you quite remember the main of the _first_ part--(_parts_ there are none except in the necessary process of chopping up to suit the limits of a magazine--and I gave them as much as I could transcribe at a sudden warning)--because, if you please, I can bring the whole, of course.

After seeing _you_, that Sat.u.r.day, I was caught up by a friend and carried to see Vidocq--who did the honours of his museum of knives and nails and hooks that have helped great murderers to their purposes--he scarcely admits, I observe, an implement with only one attestation to its efficacy; but the one or two exceptions rather justify his lat.i.tude in their favour--thus one little sort of dessert knife _did_ only take _one_ life.... 'But then,' says Vidocq, 'it was the man's own mother's life, with fifty-two blows, and all for' (I think) 'fifteen francs she had got?' So prattles good-naturedly Vidocq--one of his best stories of that Lacenaire--'jeune homme d'un caractere fort avenant--mais c'etait un poete,' quoth he, turning sharp on _me_ out of two or three other people round him.

Here your letter breaks in, and suns.h.i.+ne too.

Why do you send me that book--not let me take it? What trouble for nothing!

An old French friend of mine, a dear foolish, very French heart and soul, is coming presently--his poor brains are whirling with mesmerism in which he believes, as in all other unbelief. He and I are to dine alone (I have not seen him these two years)--and I shall never be able to keep from driving the great wedge right through his breast and descending lower, from riveting his two foolish legs to the wintry chasm; for I that stammer and answer hap-hazard with you, get proportionately valiant and voluble with a mere cupful of Diderot's rinsings, and a man into the bargain.

If you were prevented from leaving the house yesterday, a.s.suredly to-day you will never attempt such a thing--the wind, rain--all is against it: I trust you will not make the first experiment except under really favourable auspices ... for by its success you will naturally be induced to go on or leave off--Still you are _better_! I fully believe, dare to believe, _that_ will continue. As for me, since you ask--find me but something _to do_, and see if I shall not be well!--Though I _am_ well now almost.

How good you are to my roses--they are not of my making, to be sure.

Never, by the way, did Miss Martineau work such a miracle as I now witness in the garden--I gathered at Rome, close to the fountain of Egeria, a handful of _fennel_-seeds from the most indisputable plant of fennel I ever chanced upon--and, lo, they are come up ... hemlock, or something akin! In two places, moreover. Wherein does hemlock resemble fennel? How could I mistake? No wonder that a stone's cast off from that Egeria's fountain is the Temple of the G.o.d Ridiculus.

Well, on Sat.u.r.day then--at three: and I will certainly bring the verses you mention--and trust to find you still better.

Vivi felice--my dear friend, G.o.d bless you!

R.B.

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

Wednesday-Thursday Evening [Post-mark, July 4, 1845.]

Yes--I know the first part of the 'd.u.c.h.ess' and have it here--and for the rest of the poem, don't mind about being very legible, or even legible in the usual sense; and remember how it is my boast to be able to read all such ma.n.u.script writing as never is read by people who don't like caviare. Now you won't mind? really I rather like blots than otherwise--being a sort of patron-saint of all manner of untidyness ... if Mr. Kenyon's reproaches (of which there's a stereotyped edition) are justified by the fact--and he has a great organ of order, and knows 'disorderly persons' at a glance, I suppose.

But you won't be particular with _me_ in the matter of transcription?

_that_ is what I want to make sure of. And even if you are not particular, I am afraid you are not well enough to be troubled by writing, and writing and the thinking that comes with it--it would be wiser to wait till you are quite well--now wouldn't it?--and my fear is that the 'almost well' means 'very little better.' And why, when there is no motive for hurrying, run any risk? Don't think that I will help you to make yourself ill. That I refuse to do even so much work as the 'little dessert-knife' in the way of murder, ... _do_ think! So upon the whole, I expect nothing on Sat.u.r.day from this distance--and if it comes unexpectedly (I mean the d.u.c.h.ess and not Sat.u.r.day) _let_ it be at no cost, or at the least cost possible, will you? I am delighted in the meanwhile to hear of the quant.i.ty of 'mala herba'; and hemlock does not come up from every seed you sow, though you call it by ever such bad names.

Talking of poetry, I had a newspaper 'in help of social and political progress' sent to me yesterday from America--addressed to--just my name ... _poetess, London_! Think of the simplicity of those wild Americans in 'calculating' that 'people in general' here in England know what a poetess is!--Well--the post office authorities, after deep meditation, I do not doubt, on all probable varieties of the chimpanzee, and a glance to the Surrey Gardens on one side, and the Zoological department of Regent's Park on the other, thought of 'Poet's Corner,' perhaps, and wrote at the top of the parcel, 'Enquire at Paternoster Row'! whereupon the Paternoster Row people wrote again, 'Go to Mr. Moxon'--and I received my newspaper.

And talking of poetesses, I had a note yesterday (again) which quite touched me ... from Mr. Hemans--Charles, the son of Felicia--written with so much feeling, that it was with difficulty I could say my perpetual 'no' to his wish about coming to see me. His mother's memory is surrounded to him, he says, 'with almost a divine l.u.s.tre'--and 'as it cannot be to those who knew the writer alone and not the woman.' Do you not like to hear such things said? and is it not better than your tradition about Sh.e.l.ley's son? and is it not pleasant to know that that poor n.o.ble pure-hearted woman, the Vittoria Colonna of our country, should be so loved and comprehended by some ... by one at least ... of her own house? Not that, in naming Sh.e.l.ley, I meant for a moment to make a comparison--there is not equal ground for it.

Vittoria Colonna does not walk near Dante--no. And if you promised never to tell Mrs. Jameson ... nor Miss Martineau ... I would confide to you perhaps my secret profession of faith--which is ... which is ... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there _is_ a natural inferiority of mind in women--of the intellect ... not by any means, of the moral nature--and that the history of Art and of genius testifies to this fact openly. Oh--I would not say so to Mrs. Jameson for the world. I believe I was a coward to her altogether--for when she denounced carpet work as 'injurious to the mind,' because it led the workers into 'fatal habits of reverie,' I defended the carpet work as if I were striving _pro aris et focis_, (_I_, who am so innocent of all that knowledge!) and said not a word for the poor reveries which have frayed away so much of silken time for me ... and let her go away repeating again and again ... 'Oh, but _you_ may do carpet work with impunity--yes! _because_ you can be writing poems all the while.'!

Think of people making poems and rugs at once. There's complex machinery for you!

I told you that I had a sensation of cold blue steel from her eyes!--And yet I really liked and like and shall like her. She is very kind I believe--and it was my mistake--and I correct my impressions of her more and more to perfection, as _you_ tell me who know more of her than I.

Only I should not dare, ... _ever_, I think ... to tell her that I believe women ... all of us in a ma.s.s ... to have minds of quicker movement, but less power and depth ... and that we are under your feet, because we can't stand upon our own. Not that we should either be quite under your feet! so you are not to be too proud, if you please--and there is certainly some amount of wrong--: but it never will be righted in the manner and to the extent contemplated by certain of our own prophetesses ... nor ought to be, I hold in intimate persuasion. One woman indeed now alive ... and only _that_ one down all the ages of the world--seems to me to justify for a moment an opposite opinion--that wonderful woman George Sand; who has something monstrous in combination with her genius, there is no denying at moments (for she has written one book, Leila, which I could not read, though I am not easily turned back,) but whom, in her good and evil together, I regard with infinitely more admiration than all other women of genius who are or have been. Such a colossal nature in every way,--with all that breadth and scope of faculty which women want--magnanimous, and loving the truth and loving the people--and with that 'hate of hate' too, which you extol--so eloquent, and yet earnest as if she were dumb--so full of a living sense of beauty, and of n.o.ble blind instincts towards an ideal purity--and so proving a right even in her wrong. By the way, what you say of the Vidocq museum reminds me of one of the chamber of masonic trial scenes in 'Consuelo.' Could you like to see those knives?

I began with the best intentions of writing six lines--and see what is written! And all because I kept my letter back ... from a _doubt about Sat.u.r.day_--but it has worn away, and the appointment stands good ...

for me: I have nothing to say against it.

But belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as general unbelief--to do it justice--now is it? It may be super-belief as well. Not that there is not something ghastly and repelling to me in the thought of Dr. Elliotson's great bony fingers seeming to 'touch the stops' of a whole soul's harmonies--as in phreno-magnetism. And I should have liked far better than hearing and seeing _that_, to have heard _you_ pour the 'cupful of Diderot's rinsings,' out,--and indeed I can fancy a little that you and how you could do it--and break the cup too afterwards!

Another sheet--and for what?

What is written already, if you read, you do so meritoriously--and it's an example of bad writing, if you want one in the poems. I am ashamed, you may see, of having written too much, (besides)--which is _much_ worse--but one writes and writes: _I_ do at least--for _you_ are irreproachable. Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not written ... or _had_!

E.B.B.