The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 55

Sunday Afternoon.

[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]

Here is the letter again, dearest: I suppose it gives me the same pleasure, in reading, as you--and Mr. K. as me, and anybody else as him; if all the correspondence which was claimed again and burnt on some principle or other some years ago be at all of the nature of this sample, the measure seems questionable. Burn anybody's _real_ letters, well and good: they move and live--the thoughts, feelings, and expressions even,--in a self-imposed circle limiting the experience of two persons only--_there_ is the standard, and to _that_ the appeal--how should a third person know? His presence breaks the line, so to speak, and lets in a whole tract of country on the originally inclosed spot--so that its trees, which were from side to side there, seem left alone and wondering at their sudden unimportance in the broad land; while its 'ferns such as I never saw before' and which have been petted proportionably, look extravagant enough amid the new spread of good honest grey gra.s.s that is now the earth's general wear. So that the significance is lost at once, and whole value of such letters--the cypher changed, the vowel-points removed: but how can that affect clever writing like this? What do you, to whom it is addressed, see in it more than the world that wants to see it and shan't have it? One understands shutting an unprivileged eye to the ineffable mysteries of those 'upper-rooms,' now that the broom and dust pan, stocking-mending and gingerbread-making are invested with such unforeseen reverence ... but the carriage-sweep and quarry, together with Jane and our baskets, and a pleasant shadow of Wordsworth's Sunday hat preceding his own rapid strides in the direction of Miss Fenwick's house--surely, 'men's eyes were made to see, so let them gaze' at all _this_! And so I, gazing with a clear conscience, am very glad to hear so much good of a very good person and so well told. She plainly sees the proper use and advantage of a country-life; and _that_ knowledge gets to seem a high point of attainment doubtless by the side of the Wordsworth she speaks of--for _mine_ he shall not be as long as I am able! Was ever such a '_great_'

poet before? Put one trait with the other--the theory of rural innocence--alternation of 'vulgar trifles' with dissertating with style of 'the utmost grandeur that _even you_ can conceive' (speak for yourself, Miss M.!)--and that amiable transition from two o'clock's grief at the death of one's brother to three o'clock's happiness in the 'extraordinary mesmeric discourse' of one's friend. All this, and the rest of the serene and happy inspired daily life which a piece of 'unpunctuality' can ruin, and to which the guardian 'angel' brings as crowning qualification the knack of poking the fire adroitly--of this--what can one say but that--no, best hold one's tongue and read the 'Lyrical Ballads' with finger in ear. Did not Sh.e.l.ley say long ago 'He had no more _imagination_ than a pint-pot'--though in those days he used to walk about France and Flanders like a man? _Now_, he is 'most comfortable in his worldly affairs' and just this comes of it!

He lives the best twenty years of his life after the way of his own heart--and when one presses in to see the result of the rare experiment ... what the _one_ alchemist whom fortune has allowed to get all his coveted materials and set to work at last in earnest with fire and melting-pot--what _he_ produces after all the talk of him and the like of him; why, you get _pulvis et cinis_--a man at the mercy of the tongs and shovel!

Well! Let us despair at nothing, but, wis.h.i.+ng success to the newer aspirant, expect better things from Miss M. when the 'knoll,' and 'paradise,' and their facilities, operate properly; and that she will make a truer estimate of the importance and responsibilities of 'authors.h.i.+p' than she does at present, if I understand rightly the sense in which she describes her own life as it means to be; for in one sense it is all good and well, and quite natural that she should like 'that sort of strenuous handwork' better than book-making; like the play better than the labour, as we are apt to do. If she realises a very ordinary scheme of literary life, planned under the eye of G.o.d not 'the public,' and prosecuted under the constant sense of the night's coming which ends it good or bad--then, she will be sure to 'like' the rest and sport--teaching her maids and sewing her gloves and making delicate visitors comfortable--so much more rational a resource is the worst of them than gin-and-water, for instance. But if, as I rather suspect, these latter are to figure as a virtual _half_ duty of the whole Man--as of equal importance (on the ground of the innocence and utility of such occupations) with the book-making aforesaid--always supposing _that_ to be of the right kind--_then_ I respect Miss M. just as I should an Archbishop of Canterbury whose business was the teaching A.B.C. at an infant-school--he who might set on the Tens to instruct the Hundreds how to convince the Thousands of the propriety of doing that and many other things. Of course one will respect him only the more if when _that_ matter is off his mind he relaxes at such a school instead of over a chess-board; as it will increase our love for Miss M. to find that making 'my good Jane (from Tyne-mouth)'--'happier and--I hope--wiser' is an amus.e.m.e.nt, or more, after the day's progress towards the 'novel for next year' which is to inspire thousands, beyond computation, with the ardour of making innumerable other Janes and delicate relatives happier and wiser--who knows but as many as Burns did, and does, so make happier and wiser?

Only, _his quarry_ and after-solace was that 'marble bowl often replenished with whiskey' on which Dr. Curry discourses mournfully, 'Oh, be wiser Thou!'--and remember it was only _after_ Lord Bacon had written to an end _his_ Book--given us for ever the Art of Inventing--whether steam-engine or improved dust-pan--that he took on himself to do a little exemplary 'hand work'; got out on that cold St.

Alban's road to stuff a fowl with snow and so keep it fresh, and got into his bed and died of the cold in his hands ('strenuous _hand_ work'--) before the snow had time to melt. He did not begin in his youth by saying--'I have a horror of merely writing 'Novum Organums'

and shall give half my energies to the stuffing fowls'!

All this it is _my_ amus.e.m.e.nt, of an indifferent kind, to put down solely on the pleasant a.s.surance contained in that postscript, of the one way of never quarrelling with Miss M.--'by joining in her plan and practice of plain speaking'--could she but 'get people to do it!'

Well, she gets me for a beginner: the funny thing would be to know what Chorley's desperate utterance amounted to! Did you ever hear of the plain speaking of some of the continental lottery-projectors? An estate on the Rhine, for instance, is to be disposed of, and the holder of the lucky ticket will find himself suddenly owner of a mediaeval castle with an unlimited number of dependencies--vineyards, woods, pastures, and so forth--all only waiting the new master's arrival--while inside, all is swept and garnished (not to say, varnished)--the tables are spread, the wines on the board, all is ready for the reception _but_ ... here 'plain speaking' becomes necessary--it prevents quarrels, and, could the projector get people to practise it as he does all would be well; so he, at least, will speak plainly--you hear what _is_ provided but, he cannot, dares not withhold what is _not_--there is then, to speak plainly,--no night cap! You _will_ have to bring your own night cap. The projector furnishes somewhat, as you hear, but not _all_--and now--the worst is heard,--will you quarrel with him? Will my own dear, dearest Ba please and help me here, and fancy Chorley's concessions, and tributes, and recognitions, and then, at the very end, the 'plain words,' to counterbalance all, that have been to overlook and pardon?

Oh, my own Ba, hear _my_ plain speech--and how this is _not_ an attempt to frighten you out of your dear wish to '_hear_ from me'--no, indeed--but a whim, a caprice,--and now it is out! over, done with!

And now I am with you again--it is to _you_ I shall write next. Bless you, ever--my beloved. I am much better, indeed--and mean to be well.

And you! But I will write--this goes for nothing--or only _this_, that I am your very own--

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

Monday.

[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]

My long letter is with you, dearest, to show how serious my illness was 'while you wrote': unless you find that letter too foolish, as I do on twice thinking--or at all events a most superfluous bestowment of handwork while the heart was elsewhere, and with you--never more so! Dear, dear Ba, your adorable goodness sinks into me till it nearly pains,--so exquisite and strange is the pleasure: _so_ you care for me, and think of me, and write to me!--I shall never die for you, and if it could be so, what would death prove? But I can live on, your own as now,--utterly your own.

Dear Ba, do you suppose we differ on so plain a point as that of the superior wisdom, and generosity, too, of announcing such a change &c.

at the eleventh hour? There can be no doubt of it,--and now, what of it to me?

But I am not going to write to-day--only this--that I am better, having not been quite so well last night--so I shut up books (that is, of my own) and mean to think about nothing but you, and you, and still you, for a whole week--so all will come right, I hope! _May_ I take Wednesday? And do you say that,--hint at the possibility of that, because you have been reached by my own remorse at feeling that if I had kept my appointment _last_ Sat.u.r.day (but one)--Thursday would have been my day this past week, and this very Monday had been gained?

Shall I not lose a day for ever unless I get Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day?--yet ... care ... dearest--let nothing horrible happen.

If I do not hear to the contrary to-morrow--or on Wednesday early--

But write and bless me dearest, most dear Ba. G.o.d bless you ever--

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

Monday Morning.

[Post-mark, February 17, 1846.]

_Mechant comme quatre!_ you are, and not deserving to be let see the famous letter--is there any grammar in _that_ concatenation, can you tell me, now that you are in an arch-critical humour? And remember (turning back to the subject) that personally she and I are strangers and that therefore what she writes for me is naturally scene-painting to be looked at from a distance, done with a masterly hand and most amiable intention, but quite a different thing of course from the intimate revelations of heart and mind which make a living thing of a letter. If she had sent such to me, I should not have sent it to Mr.

Kenyon, but then, she would not have sent it to me in any case. What she _has_ sent me might be a chapter in a book and has the life proper to itself, and I shall not let you try it by another standard, even if you wished, but you don't--for I am not so _bete_ as not to understand how the jest crosses the serious all the way you write. Well--and Mr.

Kenyon wants the letter the second time, not for himself, but for Mr.

Crabb Robinson who promises to let me have a new sonnet of Wordsworth's in exchange for the loan, and whom I cannot refuse because he is an intimate friend of Miss Martineau's and once allowed me to read a whole packet of letters from her to him. She does not object (as I have read under her hand) to her letters being shown about in MS., notwithstanding the anathema against all printers of the same (which completes the extravagance of the unreason, I think) and people are more anxious to see them from their presumed nearness to annihilation. I, for my part, value letters (to talk literature) as the most vital part of biography, and for any rational human being to put his foot on the traditions of his kind in this particular cla.s.s, does seem to me as wonderful as possible. Who would put away one of those mult.i.tudinous volumes, even, which stereotype Voltaire's wrinkles of wit--even Voltaire? I can read book after book of such reading--or could! And if her principle were carried out, there would be an end! Death would be deader from henceforth. Also it is a wrong selfish principle and unworthy of her whole life and profession, because we should all be ready to say that if the secrets of our daily lives and inner souls may instruct other surviving souls, let them be open to men hereafter, even as they are to G.o.d now. Dust to dust, and soul-secrets to humanity--there are natural heirs to all these things.

Not that I do not intimately understand the shrinking back from the idea of publicity on any terms--not that I would not myself destroy papers of mine which were sacred to _me_ for personal reasons--but then I never would call this natural weakness, virtue--nor would I, as a teacher of the public, announce it and attempt to justify it as an example to other minds and acts, I hope.

How hard you are on the mending of stockings and the rest of it! Why not agree with me and like that sort of homeliness and simplicity in combination with such large faculty as we must admit _there_? Lord Bacon did a great deal of trifling besides the stuffing of the fowl you mention--which I did not remember: and in fact, all the great work done in the world, is done just by the people who know how to trifle--do you not think so? When a man makes a principle of 'never losing a moment,' he is a lost man. Great men are eager to find an hour, and not to avoid losing a moment. 'What are you doing' said somebody once (as I heard the tradition) to the beautiful Lady Oxford as she sate in her open carriage on the race-ground--'Only a little algebra,' said she. People who do a little algebra on the race-ground are not likely to do much of anything with ever so many hours for meditation. Why, you must agree with me in all this, so I shall not be sententious any longer. Mending stockings is not exactly the sort of pastime _I_ should choose--who do things quite as trifling without the utility--and even your Seigneurie peradventure.... I stop there for fear of growing impertinent. The _argumentum ad hominem_ is apt to bring down the _argumentum ad baculum_, it is as well to remember in time.

For Wordsworth ... you are right in a measure and by a standard--but I have heard such really desecrating things of him, of his selfishness, his love of money, his worldly _cunning_ (rather than prudence) that I felt a relief and gladness in the new chronicle;--and you can understand how _that_ was. Miss Mitford's doctrine is that everything put into the poetry, is taken out of the man and lost utterly by him.

Her general doctrine about poets, quite amounts to that--I do not say it too strongly. And knowing that such opinions are held by minds not feeble, it is very painful (as it would be indeed in any case) to see them apparently justified by royal poets like Wordsworth. Ah, but I know an answer--I see one in my mind!

So again for the letters. Now ought I not to know about letters, I who have had so many ... from chief minds too, as society goes in England and America? And _your_ letters began by being first to my intellect, before they were first to my heart. All the letters in the world are not like yours ... and I would trust them for that verdict with any jury in Europe, if they were not so far too dear! Mr. Kenyon wanted to make me show him your letters--I did show him the first, and resisted gallantly afterwards, which made him say what vexed me at the moment, ... 'oh--you let me see only _women's_ letters,'--till I observed that it was a breach of confidence, except in some cases, ... and that _I_ should complain very much, if anyone, man or woman, acted so by myself. But n.o.body in the world writes like you--not so _vitally_--and I have a right, if you please, to praise my letters, besides the reason of it which is as good.

Ah--you made me laugh about Mr. Chorley's free speaking--and, without the personal knowledge, I can comprehend how it could be nothing very ferocious ... some 'pardonnez moi, vous etes un ange.' The amusing part is that by the same post which brought me the Ambleside doc.u.ment, I heard from Miss Mitford 'that it was an admirable thing of Chorley to have persisted in not allowing Harriet Martineau to quarrel with him' ... so that there are laurels on both sides, it appears.

And I am delighted to hear from you to-day just _so_, though I reproach you in turn just _so_ ... because you were not 'depressed' in writing all this and this and this which has made me laugh--you were not, dearest--and you call yourself better, 'much better,' which means a very little perhaps, but is a golden word, let me take it as I may.

May G.o.d bless you. Wednesday seems too near (now that this is Monday and you are better) to be _our_ day ... perhaps it does,--and Thursday _is_ close beside it at the worst.

Dearest I am your own

BA.

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

Monday Evening.

[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]

Now forgive me, dearest of all, but I must teaze you just a little, and entreat you, if only for the love of me, to have medical advice and follow it _without further delay_. I like to have recourse to these medical people quite as little as you can--but I am persuaded that it is necessary--that it is at least _wise_, for you to do so now, and, you see, you were 'not quite so well' again last night! So will you, for me? Would _I_ not, if you wished it? And on Wednesday, yes, on Wednesday, come--that is, if coming on Wednesday should really be not bad for you, for you _must_ do what is right and kind, and I doubt whether the omnibus-driving and the noises of every sort betwixt us, should not keep you away for a little while--I trust you to do what is best for both of us.

And it is not best ... it is not good even, to talk about 'dying for me' ... oh, I do beseech you never to use such words. You make me feel as if I were choking. Also it is nonsense--because n.o.body puts out a candle for the light's sake.

Write _one line_ to me to-morrow--literally so little--just to say how you are. I know by the writing here, what _is_. Let me have the one line by the eight o'clock post to-morrow, Tuesday.

For the rest it may be my 'goodness' or my badness, but the world seems to have sunk away beneath my feet and to have left only you to look to and hold by. Am I not to _feel_, then, any trembling of the hand? the least trembling?

May G.o.d bless both of us--which is a double blessing for me notwithstanding my badness.

_I trust you about Wednesday_--and if it should be wise and kind not to come quite so soon, we will take it out of other days and lose not one of them. And as for anything 'horrible' being likely to happen, do not think of that either,--there can be nothing horrible while you are not ill. So be well--try to be well--use the means and, well or ill, let me have the one line to-morrow ... Tuesday. I send you the foolish letter I wrote to-day in answer to your too long one--too long, was it not, as you felt? And I, the writer of the foolish one, am twice-foolish, and push poor 'Luria' out of sight, and refuse to finish my notes on him till the harm he has done shall have pa.s.sed away. In my badness I bring false accusation, perhaps, against poor Luria.

So till Wednesday--or as you shall fix otherwise.

Your

BA.

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

6-1/2 Tuesday Evening.

My dearest, your note reaches me only _now_, with an excuse from the postman. The answer you expect, you shall have the only way possible.

I must make up a parcel so as to be able to knock and give it. I shall be with you to-morrow, G.o.d willing--being quite well.